


Not English But Angels

by sideris



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Twisted and Supplemented, Complete, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 203,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3710488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sideris/pseuds/sideris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sort-of canon, sort-of AU fic in which I twist and supplement canon to weave it into a new story in which Sherlock and John come from different worlds and nothing is quite what it seems.</p><p><i>There were times I didn't even think you were human.</i> - John</p><p><i> I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them. </i> - Sherlock<br/> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Legwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No," Sherlock says. "I’ve told you before, Mycroft - I have no interest in going there.”_
> 
> _“No interest in seeing where our parents died?”_
> 
> _Hell. Not this again. Another pathetic appeal to Sherlock’s limbic system. He turns his back on Mycroft and goes back to the control panel.“Why should I be interested? Because I carry their genes? They made us. They died. That’s what parents do. There’s nothing original or even interesting about it.”_

Mycroft gazes gloomily at the monitor on the desk before him. On its screen, a blue, green and white globe is rotating slowly - a world of cloud and water, fragile like veiled glass. From this distance, one would never imagine how troubled it is. You’d certainly never guess the threat it poses to the stability of the entire Orion Arm.

Earth.

If the decision were hiss to make, he’d obliterate the place. Send in the bombers and bulldozers, and salt the land. It’s more trouble than it’s worth, the natives neither grateful nor worthy of intervention.

For the life of him, he cannot understand why Management is so keen on preserving the place. Perhaps if he knew that, he’d be able to formulate a strategy - but apparently he doesn’t have clearance for that kind of intel.

He sighs heavily. If Earth can’t be removed, it will have to be fixed - even though he sincerely doubts the wisdom of even trying.

________________

John has never doubted the good intentions of the Blair government in sending the troops into Afghanistan but, as time's gone on, he’s increasingly doubted the wisdom of it. He’s seen too many good men die - on his operating table and in the wards afterwards - taken by blood loss and infection, ravaged internal organs and shattered bones.

The orderly wheels away his fifth patient of the morning - a twenty-two year old John’s not sure will live. He peels off his disposable gloves, tosses them into a bin, then hastily scrubs in again. It’s been a long, hot week: temperatures in the forties and more casualties than he’s ever known. Sweat trickling down his back, hair sticking to his forehead, he returns to his table as the next broken body is brought in.

This time it’s an enemy combatant - though he's little more than a boy. He’s shouting in anger and pain, and has been strapped to the stretcher to prevent him from injuring himself further.

John takes a pre-filled syringe from the medicines cabinet, removes the cap from the needle and approaches.

“Easy now,” he murmurs. “I’m going to give you something to help you relax, all right?”

The boy twists in his bonds, making the metal frame clatter on the tiled floor. “Go to hell, American lap-dog!” he yells, and he spits a mouthful of blood-streaked saliva square into John’s face. “Me, my brothers - we don’t need your help!”

John’s not a saint. At the feel of the thick, wet glob sliding down his face, a surge of anger rises up in him, but he pushes it back down. In pain, British squaddies have called him far worse - and to this man, he’s an invader. John thinks he'd probably behave in much the same way himself if Britain were taken over by foreign troops. He finds a vein in the back of the boy's hand, slides the needle in and depresses the plunger.

By the time he’s wiped the spit from his face and scrubbed in again, his patient is unconscious and John can get back to work.

________________

“You. Shitheaded. Dog. Bastard,” the universal translator supplies, its measured electronic tones failing to do justice, Sherlock’s sure, to the venom behind the original curse. “Why. Don’t. You. Just. Kill. Me.”

Shackled to Sherlock’s new silver and copper frame, the Tokëan strains and writhes, lips peeled back from bared, yellow teeth, hatred blazing in its eyes.

Sherlock sighs in irritation at the creature’s utter stupidity. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks, cranking the dial up to send four milliamperes of alternating current through all three of his test subjects. “I’m investigating your response to pain.”

This time the Tokëan throws its head back as far as the frame will allow and howls. At its side, the little Aardan goes into a violent muscle spasm and the whites of its eyes turn scarlet. The Zemean giant, however, seems completely unmoved.

Surveying them, Sherlock presses his hands together and bounces the tips of his forefingers against his lips in the steady, soothing rhythm that’s always helped him think. 

“Interesting,” he says softly, moving nearer for a closer look. “Very interesting.”

He peers into the Tokëan’s contorted face, cataloguing the lines and muscle tension, the clenched teeth and the bitten bottom lip. His latest hyperalgesic seems to be working.

“All you have to do for this to end,” he says, matter-of-factly, “is to tell me where the rest of your pack is hiding.”

The Tokëan’s jaw slackens, its cheeks hollow - and Sherlock steps swiftly out of range before the ball of slime it launches can hit him. He eyes the spot where it lands, calculating mass, weight and velocity. There’s no way a second attempt will reach him from here. “Tell me," he says, calmly. "Tell me, and it stops."

Incredibly, the Tokëan merely glares at him and Sherlock feels a little thrill of excitement. Every textbook he's ever read on the subject insists there's a direct correlation between submission and the ability to feel pain and, thanks to his hyperalgesic, this creature’s body is responding to the current as if it were truly agonising. Its blood pressure, pulse and respiration rates are all in the danger zone - and yet it persists in defying him. 

“Tell me,” he demands, administering another shock when the Tokëan continues to refuse to speak. _It's near to breaking. It has to be_. "Tell me!"

The Tokëan’s response is a string of harsh guttural sounds so rapid that it’s over before the universal translator can begin.

“You. Understand,” it decodes, a moment later. “Nothing never. Will. Can't.”

The translator clicks softly off again and, leaving the exhausted Tokëan's bare torso to slump against the frame, Sherlock moves on to the Zemean. The creature is almost a foot taller than he is, its body thick-skinned and muscled. A glance at the monitor shows the last shock made almost no impression upon its central nervous system. Sherlock is unsurprised: Zemean nociceptors are few and far between, and equipped with only C fibre axons. Even drugged, their sensitivity is limited and their responses slow. The best that can be said for the species is that it’s useful as a control. Sherlock is turning away to focus on his third test subject when the Zemean suddenly begins to whistle and the universal translator whirrs back into life.

“Hills south of. Ess river. Basin. Pass near. The summit. Twenty-five males, thirty females. Armed.”

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks and turns around. The Zemean’s expression - eyes wide, head cocked to one side - is, as far as Sherlock can tell, expectant. The creature isn’t in pain; it isn’t even afraid.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks it, mildly disappointed.

The Zemean gives a series of five staccato whistles which burst forth like laughter.

“You offered. Freedom,” the translator replies.

For a moment, Sherlock is taken aback. That’s not what he offered at all. He’s about to reiterate the exact nature of what the Zemean can expect - more clearly this time - when something sparks in his brain. What if he were to lie to it? What if he were to lie to the Tokëan, promise anything …

Annoyingly, this interesting train of thought is arrested by the lab door swinging open and someone walking in. Dressed as the intruder is in the standard civil service uniform - grey suit, black shoes, white shirt - it takes Sherlock a full ten seconds to recognize him as his own brother.

“Oh, Lord,” Mycroft sighs, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he takes in Sherlock’s experiment. “Getting your hands dirty again? I thought the general biology of the lower orders had been comprehensively documented centuries ago.”

“The general biology, yes,” Sherlock agrees. “What you fail to appreciate, Mycroft, is the importance of the specific.”

Mycroft sniffs. “Yes, well, you’d better get this mess cleaned away before anyone sees that you’ve been wasting Management's funds again. I can’t be perpetually making excuses for you.”

Sherlock glares at him, appalled. “Why would you make excuses for me?”

A spot of pink appears on Mycroft’s cheeks. “Because you’re my-” he begins, the words loud and hard-edged with annoyance. Cheeks turning pinker still at the sound of them, he quickly lowers his voice, and hisses at Sherlock between clenched teeth. “You’re my responsibility. What you do affects me.”

“Impossible. If that were the case, you’d be Dominion grade by now, not slumming it as a lowly Principality.”

Sherlock turns away to check the violence of the Tokëan’s convulsions hasn’t damaged his test frame. It’s not his fault that Mycroft has failed to secure advancement. Mycroft has consistently failed to internalize the principle of Detachment, clinging instead to the absurd belief that an individual’s happiness is dependent on that of others - particularly if those others happen to have been spawned in the same gene pool. It’s both baffling and irritating, and results in Mycroft intruding on Sherlock’s space with depressing regularity. Like now.

Sherlock scowls at him. “Go away, Mycroft. I’m busy.”

“You’ll be in a reprogramming facility if you don’t stop this now,” Mycroft insists. “Your feet won’t touch the ground if an Authority finds out about this ... this little foray into sadism.”

Sherlock blinks at him. “Sadism? You think I get sexual gratification from my work?” He gives a little shudder of revulsion: the pleasure he gets from work, from _control_ , is entirely cerebral. “I am an _Angel_. This is science.”

“Nevertheless,” Mycroft returns, still in hushed tones, “if the Authorities - or Lord help us, the Archs - discover-”

“The Archs already know,” Sherlock cuts in. “They sanctioned it.”

The colour drains from Mycroft’s flushed cheeks. “They know?”

Sherlock smiles triumphantly. “I’m working on their Earth problem. Developing a theory. I’ve done a thorough review of the literature. Assimilated all the relevant data - murderers, assassins, killers and worse. I’ll need new test subjects now, of course. If only I could get some from Earth itself-”

“That’s why I’m here,” Mycroft says, talking over him. “I'm working on the Earth problem, too. Sherlock, I need your help.”

It doesn’t take a genius to work out what that means, and a cold shiver of alarm goes up Sherlock’s spine. Management forced him to take a two-year U.T. module on Earth and he has no desire to experience the planet’s chaos and stupidity first hand. He holds up both hands defensively and backs away, shaking his head. 

“No. I’ve told you before, Mycroft - I have no interest in going there.”

“No interest in seeing where our parents died?”

Hell. Not this again. Another pathetic appeal to Sherlock’s limbic system. He turns his back on Mycroft and goes back to the control panel.“Why should I be interested? Because I carry their genes? They made us. They died. That’s what parents do. There’s nothing original or even interesting about it.”

“Mummy was original,” Mycroft counters. “A brilliant-”

“So you keep saying. I don’t remember.”

“Of course you don’t,” Mycroft says, his voice repulsively gentle, as the test frame rattles with the tethered aliens’ convulsions. “You were only-” He breaks off, apparently overcome by one of the softer emotions he should have stifled years ago, but then his expression hardens. “This is our opportunity to redeem ourselves, Sherlock.”

“Your opportunity to redeem yourself, you mean. You’re the one who can’t detach.”

“There’s an incident on your record too,” Mycroft shoots back, then clamps his mouth shut, shaking his head in apology.

Furious, Sherlock throws the power switch again, and the Tokëan screams. The pitch registers somewhere between a top B and a C, the volume sixty-five decibels. Sherlock slides both figures across his monitor into the Results folder, and hits Save. The Zemean’s numbers haven’t changed an iota, and there’s nothing at all showing for the Aardan. Sherlock glances up to see what the problem is and finds himself almost nose to nose with Mycroft, who’s glaring at him over the console.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says, voice icy even though his every other physical indicator is betraying red-hot rage, “you will stop this now. You will pack your bags, and you will report to the Departures Lounge at fifteen-thirty tomorrow.”

“Or what?” Sherlock scoffs, because this has gone on long enough. He has work to do. Data to collect. “You’ll make me?”

“Oh, I won’t need to.” Mycroft’s smile is reptilian as he sets a folded sheet of paper down on the console. “Go on. Open it.”

Sherlock opens it.

It’s an order. From Management.

________________

The view from the picture window in Mycroft’s living quarters is of Lake Peace - a vast stretch of cool, turquoise water. Barely a ripple mars its surface, despite the turbines and pipelines working endlessly in its depths. The casual observer would never guess that the place is the source of a quarter of Heaven’s energy supplies and almost half its drinking water. Mycroft raises his glass in salute and empties it in one long swallow.

If truth be told, he’s not entirely sanguine about his upcoming trip. The mission to Earth is clearly a test - or rather, a whole series of tests. In addition to steering the planet’s more bellicose elements away from all-out war, he will undoubtedly be expected to prove he’s leadership material by ensuring Sherlock focuses on the tasks he’s been assigned, instead of spinning off along whatever tangent happens to capture his interest.

Earth has been the ruination of many an Angel. Substantial numbers are sent there every year, and a significant proportion never return. There must be hundreds - thousands - of them down there. The Fallen: condemned to live out vastly reduced lives because of their own moral weakness.

Mycroft resolves to keep a very close eye on Sherlock: he has no wish for either of them to join their number.

________________

The mess tent smells of bacon, eggs, beans and very strong tea. John spoons his breakfast onto a cheap, white plate and fills a mug right to the brim. A full mug saves time. There’s a new push on to root out a group of insurgents from Lashkani before they get chance to plant IEDs or - God forbid - set up a rocket launcher, so today’s going to be a busy one. Inevitably, there will be casualties and, although Martin Blackshott’s an excellent combat medic, there’s only so much a man with such limited training can do, especially out on the battlefield.

John looks around the mess to give Blackshott an encouraging smile, an unspoken promise to pick up wherever Blackshott has to leave off, but there’s no sign of him. Which is strange, because wherever there’s food, Blackshott’s usually there too. A man with a heartier appetite would be hard to imagine. Despite the heat, a peculiar chill runs up John’s back, but he’s too old and too sensible to believe in premonitions. What he believes in is eating a decent breakfast before a hard day’s work. He turns his attention back to his eggs and beans.

He’s just swallowing the last mouthful when the hubbub of conversation around him dies abruptly away, and even the clatter of cutlery falls silent. The men opposite - Davis and Porter - kick their chairs back and stand smartly to attention. John quickly does the same, pivoting on his heel to find out which of their commanding officers has walked in.

It’s James - Major Sholto. Immediately, John stands taller and straighter.

“Yes, all right,” the major stays, stiffly. “At ease, everyone. Finish your meal. I only need a few moments. I’m here to select the team for today’s mission.”

Everyone sinks back into their seats but, although they continue eating, no-one manages quite the same hungry gusto as before, and the mess hums with a sense of expectation.

“E patrol, you’re with me today,” Sholto announces, reading from the printout attached to his clipboard. “Drivers: Wiley and Orton, Carter and Haynes. Four men to a vehicle. Shipping out without a medic today. Apparently, Corporal Blackshott used his town pass to sample some of the local cuisine last nights. He’s currently … suffering the consequences.”

Had it been any other commanding officer imparting this information, everyone in the room would be laughing - making farting sounds too or miming vomiting - but, with Major Sholto, everyone maintains a polite silence. Sholto is old school, a man with standards. Firm but fair. John rather likes that about him, even if a lot of the battalion find him prickly and stand-offish.

“We’ll be in the Panthers today,” Sholto continues, still reading from his notes, “and Lieutenant Stoner requests you avoid getting injured until we’re within range of base because it’s a bug-” A flush appears on Sholto’s fine-boned, discreetly handsome face and he clears his throat. “- as it’s very difficult to remove blood from the upholstery.”

It’s a joke - an awkward one, awkwardly delivered - but the men duly chuckle. John doesn’t. He’s too busy trying not to think about vehicle seats soaked with blood at all: it conjures all too vivid a picture of wounded squaddies, their desert fatigues turning crimson as they cry for their mothers. John rises to his feet and gives the major a crisp salute.

Surprise registers in Sholto’s clear blue eyes. “Captain Watson? Something to say?”

John nods. “I’d like to volunteer, sir. To replace Blackshott on the mission.”

Sholto frowns. John knows what he’s thinking: that John’s too valuable to risk out on the battlefield. Then again - officially - he’s only an assistant surgeon, and to refuse his request on the grounds that he’d be in too much danger could have a damaging effect on morale.

“All right,” Sholto agrees, at last. “Permission granted, Captain. We leave within the hour.”

________________

“Departure in sixty,” the pilot announces cheerily as Sherlock trails into the departure lounge behind Mycroft, unable to decide whether to wish agonizing pain on his brother or simply a swift and brutal death. It occurs to him that, on Earth, there’s good chance of both, and the thought is so delightful that, for a moment, he almost smiles.

They’re led through to the protection suite, sprayed with neutralizers to ensure they don’t transport anything other than themselves into Earth’s peculiarly fragile atmosphere, and transjected with so many antibacterials and antivirals that Sherlock loses count. After so much poking and fussing, the departure lounge ought to feel like a haven.

It doesn’t. The room is bleakly utilitarian - an unadorned funnel from this world into the next, the contact lines between its prefabricated walls tapering down to a single vanishing point: the embarkation door. Suddenly, Sherlock feels trapped. Heaven may be no bigger than Earth, but his home planet has always afforded him vast intellectual freedom. Its extensive high-tech facilities save time, and in his lab, he has access to truth serums, monitors, analysis suites, and high speed computers. His test subjects are captured for him, brought in pre-drugged or in restraints. There’s never been any need to woo them, or to win their cooperation. Going to Earth might as well be time travel as far as he’s concerned.

“Oh, do stop dancing about!” Mycroft snaps, eyes darting towards one of the surveillance cameras. “Think what kind of impression you’re giving!”

Sherlock realizes he’s been pacing. “I thought you loved to see me dance?” he snaps back, embarrassed, and Mycroft recoils, clearly hurt.

Dancing is one of the many items on Sherlock’s list of Reasons To Loathe Mycroft. There was a time when he excelled at it, but it was a childish activity, one that should have been supplanted by more rational pursuits as soon as he was old enough to wield a scalpel and apply electrodes. Mycroft, however, insisted he continue his classes because Mummy ‘loved to see him dance’. If Mycroft had even tried to embrace Detachment, he’d have let the moronic phrase die with her.

A sudden click announces the opening of an aluminium hatch in one of the plain, blue-grey walls, revealing two plastic cups. Mycroft strides over to them confidently - almost jauntily.

“What’s that?” Sherlock demands.

“It’s called ‘tea’.” Mycroft removes both cups from the hatch and hands one to Sherlock. “Get used to it. Where we’re going, you’ll be drinking a lot of it.”

“And where exactly would that be?” Sherlock asks. Earth is by no means the largest planet in the Orion Arm, but it’s still a big place, with a frankly alarming range of climates and socio-economic systems. Sherlock would feel better if he knew precisely which of these his brother intends subjecting him to. Besides, it will be something concrete to think about during the tedious journey that lies ahead. The speed of trans-galactic travel may have increased considerably in recent years, but there’s a limit to how much acceleration even an Angel’s anatomy can withstand. Which means their journey to Earth will take five long days.

Mycroft takes a sip from his cup, and smacks his lips together in a show of appreciation - thereby proving he’s known their destination for days and been secretly acclimatizing himself to the local foodstuffs.

“Mycroft-”

“London.”

On Sherlock’s internal hard drive, a globe spins and stops. The camera zooms in. Northern Hemisphere. Europe. Great Britain. England. London.

Sherlock is surprised. There was a time when London was the centre of the world, but that was long, long ago. What are Management playing at, choosing somewhere so obviously past its prime? If it’s power and control they’re seeking (which they surely are), then the United States would be the rational choice. For the time being, at least. Given the way Earth’s economy is shaping up, Sherlock would have opted for one of the emerging nations.

“London? When we could be going to Moscow, or Beijing?”

“Always in a hurry, aren’t you?” Mycroft murmurs, shaking his head. “Surely you’ve deduced our mission by now?” He drains the plastic cup, and sets it down on one of the low-level blue-grey tables in front of the blue-grey settees. “We aren’t going to seize power from the Earthians, nor impose it from above. We’d need an army to achieve that, and Earth is already a tinderbox. No, you and I are going to study Earthians in their natural environment, then turn our findings into a way of subduing their aggressive tendencies. Before the whole galactic sector goes up in flames. Hearts and minds, Sherlock - hearts and minds. If, of course, we can turn up enough evidence of either.”

Despite the prickle of excitement Sherlock feels at the prospect of hands-on experiments involving an entirely new species, he raises a sceptical eyebrow. “What makes you think London is the best place for our studies?”

“Britain enjoys a stable political system, and has done for centuries. Its people are as relaxed as it’s possible for humans to be, but with enough history as Top Nation to have developed a deeply entrenched sense of entitlement. London is its epicentre and will therefore provide access to excellent specimens showing human nature at its most complacently settled.”

“Sounds dull,” Sherlock sighs.

“Dull, but eminently representative of the human species at peace. Our task is to determine what, in ordinary circumstances, makes an Earthian human docile and tractable, and what insubordinate and violent. These are the questions to which we must find answers.”

“ ‘We’?” Sherlock asks with a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to get your hands dirty this time as well?”

Mycroft’s nose wrinkles and his mouth twists. “Dear lord, no!” he exclaims, aghast. “I’m a Big Picture thinker. My remit is government, diplomacy and the law. Poking about with individual specimens is your area, not mine. You do so love trifling little details, don’t you?” He smiles nastily, pleased with himself.

“Trifling little details,” Sherlock replies acidly, “are important.” And, despite not wanting to let Mycroft get to him, he tosses his cup and the disgusting ‘tea’ beverage it contains into the waste extraction chute harder than necessary.

Mycroft says nothing - merely smiles that slow, patronizing smile of his that makes Sherlock want to punch him in the face with all the force of a Tokëan warrior. No-one gets under his skin like Mycroft, no-one at all. If only there were some way of deflating that smug pomposity. Sherlock racks his brains for a moment, then grins as an idea comes to him.

“There’s a flaw in your brilliant plan, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “And what would that be?”

Sherlock allows his grin to grow wider. “You need me to tell you?”

A muscle at the side of Mycroft’s nose, just above his lip, twitches. “It would save time. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“They’ll know we’re different. They’ll know we’re Angels.”

Mycroft instantly relaxes and a dispiritingly pleased smile blossoms on his face. “They won’t. For the past seventeen centuries, humans have laboured under the romantic notion that we have feathered wings and halos.”

“Wings and halos?” Sherlock echoes, scarcely able to believe his ears. “Feathers? Why ever would they think that?”

Mycroft sniffs, clearly enjoying himself. “I believe it was thanks to some very creative work from Interplanetary Relations in Sarigëzel during what most of Earth now calls ‘the fourth century B.C’.”

"And the Earthians actually fell for it?"

"Earthians will believe anything if the story is good enough. If it aligns with things they already believe - or want to believe."

“Ready to board now,” the pilot’s disembodied voice announces, and underfloor lighting comes on, showing the way.

Sherlock grits his teeth: this is going to feel like the longest journey an angel’s ever undertaken. In a gesture of defiance, he enters the transport pod ahead of Mycroft, and straps himself in for take-off. Mycroft takes the adjacent seat and starts fussing with his belt. It’s the perfect excuse for Sherlock to give vent to the uncomfortable surge of feeling Mycroft always manages to provoke. He reaches across and pulls the belt tight.

Just in time, as it happens, because suddenly they’re plummeting, stomachs fluttering to keep up. Five seconds later the pod locks into the rocket launcher and the outer doors slam shut.

________________

Thirty-five miles north-east of camp, Lashkani is nothing like most people back home picture Afghanistan. There are the expected rugged mountains, but they’re miles away in the distance; everything here is flat and green, with scrubby grass and willows. It’s peaceful too; what’s left of the village apparently deserted. It must once have been a bustling settlement, going by the number of shattered buildings on either side of the wide sandy track that was probably once the high street.

The patrol tumbles out of the vehicles in twos, the men still inside them providing cover until those on the ground have established secure positions. Suddenly all hell breaks out. Machine gun fire rattles in at them from all directions, the bullets sending up great clouds of dust as they strike the ground or hit concrete. Heart pounding, John scrambles down from the Wolfhound and, keeping low, he runs the length of a waist-high wall until he’s in a kind of courtyard. It’s been ages since he was last under fire. His system’s awash with adrenalin, his breathing harsh and gasping. He glances around at the others. They must be full of adrenalin too but, with jobs to do, they’re not letting it show. Guns are being mounted on tripods, ammo belts fitted and made ready with cool efficiency. Meanwhile, the snipers are taking up position along the wall. John’s job is purely defensive: pile up sandbags, stay under cover. Unless it comes down to close combat, a medic’s first duty is to keep himself safe. John checks again that his gun’s in its holster. There's only so much protection you can expect from anyone else.

At Sholto’s signal, Davis and Porter begin firing, sweeping the PKM around in an arc, and half a dozen other men dash out from cover, onto the field. The target is a bomb-blasted house: intel reported a possible arms dump behind its incongruously suburban front door.

John watches them go, holding his breath, every sense on high alert. Even so, the first bout of rocket fire is startling - the noise deafening, the shock wave disorienting. Dust billows around him, fogging his vision and making him choke. When it clears, he can just about make out Carter, in front of the house, leading with his gun. Carter shouts a challenge, then aims a kick at the door. It flies open, but as Carter goes to charge through, a figure rises up from the grass behind him. John’s on his feet before he knows it, pistol in his hand, taking aim. From this distance, a head shot’s going to be tricky, but it’s the only chance Carter has. John inhales, brings his other hand up, squeezes the trigger -

\- and his world explodes. Light flashes and fragments. Shouts bounce against his ears, echo and fade. It feels as if he’s flying through the air. Rocked back and forth by a hurricane. Thrown upside down. Abandoned. Cast adrift.

He thinks he hears someone yell his name, then everything goes black.

________________

“Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?”

At the sound of the slightly crackly voice saying his name, Mycroft allows himself to surface into full consciousness. He squeezes the drug band around his left wrist and feels the Ritalin flood his system. The sensation is not at all unpleasant. He yawns and stretches then, unbuckling his belt, he turns to check on Sherlock.

Typically, his truculent little brother has decided to feign unconsciousness. Mycroft elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Pod anaesthesia is both time- and location-controlled, Sherlock,” he says primly. “The pod began waking us-” He checks his Earthian time-piece. “- over an hour ago. So stop being difficult and take your medicine. Our transport is here.”

“More transport?” Sherlock snarls. “Aren’t we there yet?”

It’s been years since Mycroft’s seen Sherlock wake up; he’d forgotten how resentful it makes him. As if he’s annoyed at the world’s sudden intrusion, and at himself for ever having been weak enough to let it slip from his control in the first place. Mycroft watches Sherlock squeeze the med band, and scrub furiously at his hair. Dark curls even more voluminous than usual, he looks like a little boy again, and Mycroft feels a sharp stab of pride, and love, and regret.

“What?” Sherlock demands, his focus suddenly piercing.

Mycroft quickly schools his own features into a study in weary indulgence.

“No, Sherlock, we are not there yet. Funnily enough, Management didn’t think landing a pod in the centre of London a terribly good plan for aliens trying to blend in with the local fauna. Do try to keep up. We’re here under cover, remember?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and his bottom lip juts. “Then where are we?”

He really is a child, albeit a brilliant and difficult one. Mycroft smiles. “Foulness.”

“Foulness,” Sherlock echoes with a grunt. “How very appropriate.”

Mycroft sniffs. “In point of fact, the name derives from Old English. It means ‘wild bird’s nest’. Not what you’re thinking.”

Leaving Sherlock to unbuckle and collect his things, Mycroft crosses to the comms device and opens the mic. “With you in just a moment. My brother needs a little time to get himself ready.”

“On, the contrary, Mycroft,” Sherlock corrects, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “I’m ready now.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft nods, experiencing another sharp pang of sentiment: Sherlock looked much like this the first time he set off for school. He forces a smile. “Do try not to let me down, little brother.” And before Sherlock can say anything sarcastic in reply, he hits the Open Doors pad, and the metal plates glide smoothly apart, filling the pod’s interior with harsh, grey light.

Beyond them, a figure steps forward, hand extended. One of the Fallen, judging by the pudgy state of its body.

“Welcome to Earth,” it says, sounding mildly amused. “The name’s Mike Stamford. And yes, I’ve got far. I’ve been here a while.”

________________

“ … bone …”

When John finally comes round again, it’s the one word he can remember piercing the fog of the past however long it’s been.

Even so, he feels hope. He can smell disinfectant - and disinfectant means he’s away from the battlefield, somewhere clean, somewhere safe. Opening his eyes takes more effort than it should, and it’s difficult to focus at first, but soon enough he knows where he is: the hospital at base camp.

He stirs carefully, testing, afraid of what he’s going to discover, yet needing to know. Being able to shift his hips a little - raising first one then the other a fraction from the mattress - sends a warm wave of relief through him: no spinal injury, then. He’s still going to be able to walk. Tentatively, he flexes an ankle …

… and is instantly seized by panic: he can’t feel his right leg. That’s where he was hit, he’s sure. He remembers pain, shooting through his calf. Remembers his knee buckling. Then nothing. There’s still nothing.

Instinct kicks in, telling him to get up, to run. It’s not logical, part of him is well aware of that. He knows it’s just the adrenalin, his system’s response to fear, but the urge is so overwhelming his skin itches with it, and he struggles wildly against the pristine hospital sheets.

Pain flashes across his left side, high up, along the collar bone and out into his shoulder, and his left arm stubbornly refuses to work. There’s no strength in it, no power. He can’t move. Pushing with his legs doesn’t work either: all he manages to do is propel himself further up the bed, until his pillows lump against the metal frame, leaving him more uncomfortable than ever.

Wait a minute … Legs. He kicks them, one after the other. Two legs. It’s like a miracle, and he groans with relief.

Immediately, a nurse is at his side. It’s Murray - the man who usually acts as his surgical dresser.

“Steady on, Captain,” Murray says. “That’s a nasty injury you’ve got there.”

“My legs,” John says, because - Christ - he was so worried about his legs. Even now, he can’t quite believe they’re okay. “My right leg-”

“Is fine,” Murray interrupts, easing John forward so that he can plump up the pillow and put another in at John’s back. It’s awkward, because John’s back is stiff with tension and dread. “A bit of shrapnel caught it, sir, that’s all. It came out cleanly, but there’s a bit of packing in the wound. Probably feels a bit numb, yeah?”

John nods. If he speaks just now, he’s afraid he’ll burst into tears out of sheer bloody relief.

“But,” Murray adds, a frown etching deep lines between his eyes, “you took a bullet to the shoulder. Grazed your subclavian artery and buggered up your clavicle. You’re full of pins, sir.”

John’s mind starts racing, going through the possible complications of such an injury. Reduced shoulder joint rotation, nerve damage, compromised fine motor control. The last one’s like a kick to the gut. He’s a surgeon. He needs his hands. He looks down at them - tanned, almost alien shapes against the snow-white sheets. The left one is trembling, shaking like a leaf. Nerve damage. Somewhere along the pathway from shoulder to fingers, a neuron is dancing frantically, sending a message that makes no sense to a receptor that can do nothing with it. John tenses his arm, tries to make the shaking stop. It doesn’t. His hand just carries on twitching and shuddering, in a torment of its own he can’t reach.

He’d ask for the surgeon’s prognosis, except he knows it’s too early to tell. Human bodies are complex, capable of incredible feats. In time, the neural pathways may heal perfectly; then again, they may not.

And if they don’t? The prospect is too bleak, and John resolutely refuses to think about it. His job’s his life; the Army his home.

________________

The residence Mycroft has chosen is predictably grand: a brick-built three-storey edifice, with large windows and an elegant doorway. A terraced dwelling in one of the nicer areas of central London. Georgian. Grade II listed.

Dull.

“Come inside,” Mycroft urges, as Sherlock stands on the pavement outside, determining the number of minor restorations the window frames have undergone (four) and the reason for them (wear and tear, reglazing work, burglary). “You’re attracting attention. As usual.”

“Am I?” Sherlock glances down the street. On the other side of the road, a woman with two small children in tow is making no effort to disguise her obvious interest in Smith Square’s new residents. From the way she jerks her head back defensively when Sherlock catches her eye, and draws her children closer, he knows she’s made certain assumptions about him. He couldn’t care less, although it’s mildly reassuring to know that Management's textbooks were right: Earthians are afraid of the unfamiliar and apt to leap to judgement. Leaving her to her prejudices and fear, Sherlock follows Mycroft into the house.

Naturally, it’s ridiculous. One insanely ornate room after another - none of them fit for purpose, only display. Gilt-framed mirrors, heavily brocaded drapes, walls in every tasteful shade of green.

“You expect me to live here?” Sherlock asks, appalled. “Where will I put my equipment? Where will I work?”

Mycroft’s eyelids flutter reflexively: he’s struggling to maintain that façade of calm. “I’m sure we can arrange something suitable outside." He waves a vague hand towards the rear of the house. "Come and see the bedrooms.”

At the top of the winding staircase, a door stands open, offering a glimpse of ruffles and tassels and thick blue rugs. Sherlock lets out a snort of disbelief: it’s a long way from the stark simplicity he’s used to in his own home, and from the purposeful clutter of his workspace. “No, Mycroft,” he says firmly, holding up a hand. “No more. I’d suffocate here. I’ll find somewhere else.”

“We have to blend in,” Mycroft hisses, the tell-tale muscle at the side of his nose beginning to twitch. “I am to occupy a government role - the kind of post which requires me to maintain a certain lifestyle.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies tartly. “Meanwhile, I’m expected to be some kind of policeman-”

“Detective,” Mycroft corrects, with a disapproving little sniff.

“Dress it up however you like, Mycroft - it boils down to police work. Fighting my way through torturous legal loopholes and sucking up to morons I’m to pretend outrank me.”

“They won’t outrank you,” Mycroft argues. “You’ll be working independently. You’ll be an independent consulting detective - free to take on cases, or involve yourself in police work, as you see fit. Murder investigations will give you a perfect opportunity for studying Earthian violence and criminality close up, won’t they? Plenty of access to the little details you find so fascinating.”

Sherlock has to admit that, put that way, the job does sound promising. Not that he’s prepared to tell Mycroft that.

“Either way,” he says, “this won’t do. No-one’s going to believe my cover if I live in a place like this.”

Mycroft’s brows draw tight and he presses his lips together. He knows Sherlock’s right - it’s written all over his face.

“There are other places I could go,” Sherlock continues, pressing home this rare advantage over his brother. “There must be other Angels in London. Angels with less interest in over-the-top home furnishings-”

“Y-e-s,” Mycroft concedes, drawing the word out and he nods, considering. “There’s-”

“I’ll find one,” Sherlock interrupts. “One I can tolerate sharing space with.”

Instantly, Mycroft’s expression hardens and his eyes narrow. “No, Sherlock. I forbid it.”

Sherlock laughs, incredulous at both Mycroft’s sudden change of heart and his belief that the decision is his to make. “You forbid it?”

“We are here to salvage your reputation. Remember?”

Sherlock finds himself remembering other things as well - just as, he’s sure, Mycroft intended. Universal Training, and a group of arrogant, older students who deliberately dabbled in sexual activity to prove themselves masters of Detachment. They had no interest in Sherlock. Looked down on him and excluded him totally, and yet he’d still become Attached … His skin crawls with embarrassment at the memory.

“It’s not just about me, though, is it?” he growls, outraged that Mycroft would bring up something from so long ago. “Your reputation is as much on the line here as mine.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees. He takes a deep breath, and exhales it decisively. “Well, if you won’t live here, I insist on choosing you an alternative.” He reaches inside his jacket and draws out a small pocketbook which he leafs through thoughtfully for a moment, before uttering a pleased little, “Ah!” Looking up again, he gives Sherlock a bright smile. “How does Baker Street sound?”

Baker Street. City of Westminster. 2.6 miles away by foot. Far too near.

“No.”

“You’d have your own flat. You’d be able to come and go as you please.”

Sherlock regards Mycroft suspiciously. It’s too good to be true. Mycroft’s an idiot if he thinks Sherlock can't see that.

“You wouldn’t be monitoring me?”

“No!” Mycroft laughs brightly. “I’ll be far too busy with affairs of state.”

“You mean someone else will be doing it on your behalf.”

“A little,” Mycroft concedes. “But nothing too intrusive. Nothing you’d find restricting. Just someone to keep -” He pauses. Swallows. “- a maternal eye on you. Someone who’d led me know if you were in trouble.”

“A female?” Sherlock exclaims, genuinely shocked. He hasn’t had a female in his life since Mummy died and he’s glad to say he has scarcely any memories of her. He supposes he’ll have to choose a female one day - for the good of the Angel species, if not his own - but that can wait until he’s tired of science and the pursuit of knowledge. He certainly doesn’t intend to breed now. How dare Mycroft seek to impose a mate on him when he has far more important things to do? He shakes his head and folds his arms. “No.”

He’s prepared for a lecture - for wheedling or even outright threats - but none is forthcoming. Instead, Mycroft slaps a hand to his thigh and chuckles with genuine mirth. “No, no!” he splutters, as laughter seizes him. “Here. Take a look.”

He thrusts his pocketbook into Sherlock’s hand, still laughing, tears starting to roll down his face. Sherlock down glances at the page warily.

The softly lined face of an elderly female smiles back at him.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft says, his tone formal once more. “Meet your new landlady.”

Hudson, Martha, Sherlock reads. The woman is plainly dressed - knee-length skirt, thick tights, stout shoes - and her hair styled in a modest, attention-averse manner. She’s standing on a step before a large black door, bearing the brass numbers 221B.

“I’m to lodge with an Earthian female?” Sherlock asks, unsure whether he’s more outraged or intrigued. “Is that wise?”

Mycroft’s expression is unbearably smug. “She’s not an Earthian, Sherlock. She was born an Angel.”

Sherlock would laugh in his face at the outlandish claim - Angels are physically perfect, everyone knows that - were Mycroft not pulling his Yes, Really face (pursed lips pressed tightly together, eyes wide and brows raised).

“What happened?” he asks, unable to make his voice sound anything other than awestruck.

“Oh, nothing for you to worry about,” Mycroft says airily, walking over to the room’s king-size bed and turning his attention to the weightier matter of straightening out the smallest of creases in its damask cover. “I mean, it’s not as if you’re going to commit the worst of all possible sins, is it?”


	2. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(The dead female’s muscle tone is excellent, her skeletal development perfect.) (Hair and skin show signs of accelerated environmental and nutritional damage, but both are strong, almost Angelic ...) Something stirs at the back of Sherlock's mind and a shiver goes up his spine. He lifts one of the body’s hands, then the other. He catches his breath. This female was, indeed, left-handed. On its own, it’s not conclusive, but ..._

By the time the Jaguar XJ has been waved through the palace gates, Mycroft has completely revised his opinion of Earthian transport. It may be laughably slow and inefficient, but there’s something very pleasant about being cocooned inside this protective metal shell, with its soft leather interior and perfectly tuned climate control. He's warm, comfortable, and perfectly at ease as he watches the world slide by at a safe distance - unlike the police constable on duty outside. The Earthian is _blue_ with cold. It baffles Mycroft how any Angel ever gets acclimatized to London's wildly changeable weather. It’s one of the many reasons why he’s determined his own stay here will be a short one.

A soberly dressed Earthian helps Mycroft alight from the car, then leads him into the palace and up to a massive drawing room. As its doors close behind him, Mycroft begins to understand how some Angels manage to overlook London's climate, after all: the degree of luxury currently surrounding him is breath-taking, the craftsmanship displayed in the furnishings and decorations exquisite in the extreme. Everywhere he looks, he sees finely turned wood-work, gorgeously upholstered settees and immense gilded mirrors. He scarcely has time to take it all in when a trompe-l’oeil door in the far corner opens, and Harry Damery - resplendent in navy blue suit, white shirt and gold-striped tie - enters the room.

“Mycroft!” he says, smiling broadly, as he glides across the crimson carpeting, hand extended.

Mycroft takes it, experiencing a flutter of excitement: this is an authentic Earthian ritual, the first of his life.

“May I offer you tea?” Damery suggests, a conspiratorial twinkle in his large, blue eyes. “You’ve come a long way.”

Having been thorough with his pre-mission homework, Mycroft has an appropriate answer at the ready. “Earl Grey, if it’s not too much trouble.”

It earns him a smile of approval. A bell-pull is tugged and a tea service arrives, set down on one of the low, mahogany tables by a young Earthian female clad in demure black and white. As she disappears back whence she came, Mycroft takes a seat and awaits instructions.

Damery takes up position on the settee opposite and flips open a file that's been resting on the cushions. Then, leaning across the low table between them, he hands Mycroft a printed sheet.

“Westminster should suit you. Though nothing so precarious as a cabinet position. We don’t want you ousted at the next election. How does Permanent Secretary to the Home Office sound? It’s not quite as elevated a position as Cabinet Secretary but, by the same token, you’ll be less visible to the media and general public, whilst having your hands very much on the levers of power.”

Mycroft nods. “That sounds highly acceptable.”

“Good,” Damery replies. “Then we’ll celebrate with a Ginger Hobnob.”

Mycroft does his best not to drop his cup and saucer.  
 

________________

   
At first, John thinks the discomfort in his abdomen is nothing more than a reaction to the camp hospital’s standard-issue antibiotics: he’s always had what he jokingly refers to as a ‘lively’ response to penicillin. Besides, with seriously injured men all around him - amputees, men who’ve been badly burnt or blinded - he doesn't want to make a fuss, so he just swallows down his pills and resigns himself to a few more trips to the latrines than usual, and a bit more intestinal distress.

Within twenty-four hours, his distress has become pain, and the sense of urgency so acute, he’s worried he won’t make it to the toilet in time when the next bout of cramping hits.

Thirty-six hours into the infection and he’s sweating, vomiting, and has lost all control of his bowels. He’s racked with shivers, aching all over, and slipping in and out of consciousness. He’s given bedpans and injections, and put on a drip.

It takes a week for the infection to leave his system. When it’s over, he can barely stand. He’s lost over a stone and is officially underweight. The only solution, Private Willets tells him enviously, is to start eating like a horse.

John forces a grin in reply but, right now, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to face food again.  
 

________________

   
In the late afternoon light, the front door of 221B Baker Street is exactly as it appeared in Mycroft’s photo - except the photo was cunningly cropped to remove any sign of the busy little café next door. Had Sherlock known the caf´ existed, he would have flat-out refused this substandard accommodation Mycroft seems determined to foist on him. Brain work requires peace and quiet, and Sherlock can already see that he’ll get very little of either here.

As he stands scowling at the noisy Earthians eating at tables out on the pavement, the door to 221B swings open and the strikingly un-Angelic figure of Mycroft’s soon-to-be informer steps out.

Martha Hudson recognizes him instantly, though whether that’s because Mycroft has furnished her with a photograph too, or simply because Sherlock is clearly a superior being, he can’t tell. She takes a step towards him and smiles.

“Sherlock,” she says, no hint of a question or uncertainty in her curiously quavering voice. (Earth’s atmosphere must be in worse shape than the remote data suggests.) “Sherlock Holmes! Well, don’t just stand there, dear, making the place look untidy. Come on inside.”

Sherlock would point out that, if the place looks untidy, it because of the litter and fallen leaves in the gutter, and that - if anything - he is _raising_ the tone, but Hudson is already ducking back inside the 221B’s dark interior. He follows her.

Hudson plunges deeper into the building. She has a strange, bustling way of moving, hands constantly fussing, elbows jiggling, as though her spirit is never at rest. The observation gives Sherlock a sudden chill. If what Mycroft said about her is true, Hudson must be in constant torment: condemned to live out the rest of her days on this sordid, fractious little planet, with no hope of ever returning home to Heaven. Sherlock can’t think of anything more depressing.

“That’s me, in there, dear,” Hudson is saying, indicating a closed door beyond the staircase. “Near enough if you need me; far enough away if you don’t. You’re upstairs. This way!”

The staircase is a very basic one, far removed from the opulence of Mycroft’s new abode. There’s no carpet, just bare wood - seventeen steps from which the brown varnish has been worn away in patches.

Sherlock’s first impression of the flat is that it, too, is nothing like Mycroft’s place. Whereas his is all light and colour, this is dark and drab. Another bare, wooden floor; wall coverings in brown and cream, sludge green, and black and white. It’s oddly exhilarating.

“I’ll take it,” Sherlock declares, eager to move in and get started. (There’s no obvious pattern to Earthian tastes and lifestyle. They don’t slot neatly into each other’s lives. This is something that requires urgent investigation.)

Hudson’s face falls. “But you haven’t seen the bedrooms yet,” she pouts, “or the kitchen.” She pushes open a sliding, glass-panelled door to reveal another room, equipped with table and chairs, cupboards and electrical appliances.

“Not interested,” Sherlock says. “Won’t be cooking. Or eating. I won’t be here that long.”

“Oh, you’ll need to eat, dear,” Hudson clucks, shaking her head. “London doesn’t have enough light, you see, nor enough pure air or virgin water. You’ll have to eat every three days, at least. More, if you tax your system.”

She’s overstepping her bounds. Sherlock puts his foot down. “My system is no concern of yours.”

“No, dear,” she agrees amiably, “it really isn’t. As I told your brother, I’ll be your landlady, not your housekeeper.”

“Good.”

“Lovely! That’s settled, then. All that’s left is to agree terms.”

“Terms?" Sherlock echoes, suspiciously. "I thought Mycroft had made the necessary financial arrangements?”

Hudson beams at him. “Yes! Yes, he has, dear, and very generous ones, too - but I’m not interested in money. Not at my time of life. I want something else. Something money can’t buy.”

“Ah,” Sherlock murmurs. He knew this was coming. The Fallen are famous for begging other Angels to intercede with Management on their behalf. He shakes his head. “There’s nothing I can do. You knew the penalty. You can never go back.”

He’s expecting rage, or tears, or bargaining - anything but laughter, and yet Hudson is laughing heartily, showing a mouthful of ageing teeth. 

“Oh, I know that, dear! Why would they make an exception for little old me? Besides, I’m quite content here, really. I’ve got my soaps, and the bingo, and Mister-” She stops abruptly and clears her throat. “No, dear - what I want from you is help in clearing something up.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Help with what?”

Hudson shuffles nearer and lowers her voice. 

“My husband,” she whispers, and taps a forefinger to her lips. “He’s in prison. In Florida.” She tips her head to one side, as if checking Sherlock is following, before patting his arm and adding, “That’s in America, dear.”

“I’m well aware where Florida is, thank you,” Sherlock sniffs, affronted. “Not that it matters. Management takes a dim view of interfering with local judicial procedures. I’m sorry. But I can’t get your husband released.”

Hudson gives him an innocent smile. “Who said anything about getting him released, dear?”  
 

________________

   
Much to his amazement, Mycroft is rather enjoying his new life. Dealing with the British government is hardly an intellectual challenge, but his office is pleasant and his underlings are respectful and efficient. He leans back in his chair to savour it all for a moment.

The moment doesn’t last. A peremptory knock on the door brings him swiftly to his feet, just as Sherlock stalks into the room, wearing an outraged expression and an absurdly extravagant coat.

“What do you want?” he snarls. “I was busy.”

A security man materializes in the doorway, darting anxious glances between them, but Mycroft waves him away, and closes the door.

“By ‘busy’,” he says, ladling on the disdain, “you mean you provided evidence that will ensure Francis Hudson’s final appeal is rejected.”

Sherlock sets his shoulders defiantly and tosses his head. “You wanted me to live with Hudson. That was her condition. I thought you’d be pleased.”

Somehow, Mycroft manages not to roll his eyes at this childishness. “I take it 221B meets with your approval.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just grunts - because he’s never been able to admit that Mycroft’s always right. He’s so predictable on that score, that Mycroft has to hide a smile. He goes back to his desk and, in his chair once more, he rests his elbows on the desk and leans forward. 

“I asked you here to talk about how you’re to fulfil your part of the mission. I’ve found you an ‘in’ with the Metropolitan police. Someone who’s keen to help us out.”

Sherlock’s manner doesn’t change - he’s still standing, square-shouldered, hands stuffed into his oversized coat’s pockets and glaring - but Mycroft sees a light come on in his eyes. 

“Who?”

“A Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft pushes back the sleeve of the excellent Grieves and Hawkes suit jacket Procurement have fitted him out with and consults his equally excellent Raymond Weil wristwatch. “If you were to take a cab to Dagenham within the next fifteen minutes or so, I expect you'd find him him on a construction site off Chequers Lane. Investigating a suspicious death, apparently.”

Now a change does come over Sherlock: he stands taller, upper body inclining eagerly towards Mycroft. 

“A suspicious death? Or a murder?”

“Ostensibly, the former, though Lestrade suspects the latter: this is the third death of its type in the past four months.”

Sherlock is torn, Mycroft can tell. The prospect of working on any murder - let alone one that forms part of a pattern - was bound to activate his mesolimbic dopamine pathway, but something is holding him back. Typically, this combination of arousal and indecision makes him pace. Mycroft waits it out patiently, until at last Sherlock approaches the desk again and slaps both hands down on it in challenge.

“Why would an Earthian policeman let a complete stranger anywhere near his investigation?”

Mycroft smiles up at him serenely. 

“Oh, didn’t I say? Inspector Lestrade is one of us.”  
 

________________

   
The journey to Dagenham is a dismal one, and takes Sherlock through ill-kept industrial and commercial estates - a forest of ugly palisade fencing and cheap plastic signage. By the time the taxi drops him off on Chequers Lane, the sky has clouded over and there’s a chill in the air. Hudson, he realizes, was right about the lack of light and poor air quality: he’s beginning to feel empty inside. Actuall _hungry_. He wishes now that he’d spent more time preparing for this trip instead of insisting it wasn’t going to happen: he might have more idea which foodstuffs will prove merely unpleasant, and which horribly toxic. As it is, he’ll to have to wait until his return to Baker Street where he can consult his computer or Hudson. So, stomach growling under his silk shirt and fine wool jacket, he walks briskly to the end of road and the site’s open gates.

There’s a security guard in the gatehouse, eating a sandwich and reading a newspaper. He waves Sherlock past with barely a glance.

A trio of blue Portakabins dominate the yard: one an office-type, the others windowless containers. The back doors of one of the latter have been opened and people are milling about it purposefully, some in civilian clothing, some in uniform. (It must be where the body was found!) Scanning the ground beneath his feet for anything unusual in the dust and grit, Sherlock walks over.

He’s half-way across the yard, and cursing the idiot who let so many feet scuff away what might have been some decent tyre tracks, when someone shouts a warning.

“Hey! You!” The voice belongs to a dark-skinned, hard-eyed female. “Get back! This is a crime scene.”

Beside her stand a thin, dark-haired male in a blue coverall and a stouter male with grey hair. They both look over at Sherlock, and and expression of recognition comes over the older male's face. He makes placating hand gestures to the female, and says, louds enough for Sherlock to hear, “It’s all right, Donovan. He’s with me.”

Suddenly, the Metropolitan Police's willingness to let Sherlock in makes sense. Lestrade may once have been - as Mycroft put it - ‘one of us’, but it obvious from one look at him (slight paunch, grizzled hair, facial wrinkles) that this is no longer the case. Lestrade is a Fallen, like Stamford and Hudson. (No wonder he’s ‘keen to help out’.) Sherlock sighs. It’s so very typical of Mycroft to share only half a story.

As Sherlock draws closer to Lestrade and his people, his dark-haired side-kick in blue adopts a territorial stance and tries to block the way. 

“That’s far enough,” he declares, chin jutting. “I don’t want you contaminating the scene.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees, “but you _do_ want help. _My_ help.”

Donovan cocks her head to one side. “Yeah?” she demands, her tone nasal with anger, “and who are you?”

“I said he’s with me,” Lestrade says again. “His name’s Sherlock - Sherlock Holmes.”

“That’s not a name!” the other one sneers.

“That’s enough, Anderson!” Lestrade snaps, sounding quite fierce for a moment, before continuing in a more conciliatory tone. “We need help. We’re getting nowhere with these cases. An outside eye-”

“Tell me about the other cases,” Sherlock interrupts, interest making his skin tingle. “How are they similar?”

“ 'Outside eye' ?” Donovan echoes bitterly, talking over him. “You mean he’s not on the force, guv?”

Lestrade’s mouth twists. “Not exactly, no. He’s more of … an amateur.” He attempts a winning smile. “An enthusiastic, expert amateur.”

Donovan rolls her eyes. “Oh, god. You mean he’s a freak. Another weirdo who gets off on hanging around crime scenes. Great. That’s all we need.”

Leaving her to her complaining, Sherlock pushes past and into the open container. Someone’s rigged up a crude lighting system inside, revealing the slumped and very dead body of an adult female.

The metal floor creaks as Lestrade enters the container as well.

Sherlock points to the lamp and the loosely draped, haphazard wiring. “Your team’s work?”

Lestrade shakes his head. “Here when we arrived.”

Dropping into a crouch beside the body, Sherlock scans it quickly. (Female, mid- to late thirties. One hundred and forty-two pounds. Five feet six inches tall. Office worker, but not a secretary.) (The fingernails are too long.) (No - something more prestigious - quality clothing). (Some kind of leadership/management job, then.)

Eyes still fixed on the body, Sherlock holds out a hand.

"Gloves."

Lestrade swiftly provides a pair.

(The dead female’s muscle tone is excellent, her skeletal development perfect.) (Hair and skin show signs of accelerated environmental and nutritional damage, but both are strong, almost _Angelic_ ...) Something stirs at the back of Sherlock's mind and a shiver goes up his spine. He lifts one of the body’s hands, then the other. He catches his breath. This female was, indeed, left-handed. On its own, it’s not conclusive, but-

“What’ve you got?” Lestrade asks. “Anything useful?”

Sherlock straightens up again and shrugs. “Possibly,” he replies, and reels off his observations - although with one important exception. Lestrade may or may not be trustworthy; his underlings most certainly aren't.

Donovan looks profoundly unimpressed by Sherlock's findings, and Anderson insulted. 

“I’ve got all that!” he says, shaking his clipboard in Sherlock’s face.

“But was it murder?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock laughs. “Obviously.”

“Obviously?” Donovan sneers, from behind them in the doorway. “What’s obvious about it?”

“Containers like these - they don’t generally have internal lighting. Those that do - it’s neater than what you see here. This lighting system was hooked up in a hurry.”

“That proves nothing," Anderson scoffs.

“It proves someone else was here.”

“She could have done it herself,” Anderson counters, with a glance at Donovan.

Sherlock rounds on him, 

“You’d rig up lighting if you were about to kill yourself, would you?” he snaps. “You think this woman chose a nice, dark, deserted location to commit suicide, then suddenly thought 'What this place needs is a nice, bright light'? Don’t be an idiot. There was someone else here. Someone who wanted to see her die.”

Anderson can find nothing to say to that, and even Donovan is silent. Meanwhile Lestrade nods grimly. 

“Yeah - but who?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No idea. Yet. I’ll need all the paperwork you have on the other two as well - interviews, background checks, forensics … Get one of your minions to drop it all off at 221B Baker Street this evening.”

“This evening,” Lestrade splutters. “I can’t just … I mean, Sherlock … Listen-”

“This evening, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, and walks away.  
 

________________

   
The camp’s medical assessment board is comprised of three senior officers - Colonel Emsworth, Major Prendergast and Major Sholto. They sit in a row behind one of the mess tables that’s been brought in to serve as a desk, listening patiently to John as he makes an impassioned plea to be allowed to stay in post.

Eventually, the colonel raises a silencing hand. 

“Captain Watson,” he says, not unkindly, “the decision we have reached is not the wrong one. No-one doubts your willingness to continue as a surgeon, nor the quality of your previous work. However, your injuries still haven’t fully healed, and Corporal Murray informs us that you have not yet been able to perform surgery unaided.”

John swallows, squares his shoulders. “If I could be allowed to complete the course of physio, sir, I’m sure-”

Emsworth raises an eyebrow at Sholto. “Should we even be considering this matter before Captain Watson has undergone proper rehabilitation, Major?”

“Captain Watson contracted a severe infection in the hospital wing, sir,” Sholto explains. His glance across at John is both apologetic and sympathetic but when he continues, it’s to deal John’s Army career a death blow anyway. “But the opinion of the Chief Medical Officer is that Captain Watson is unlikely ever to recover full use of the arm. There is extensive nerve and tissue damage, resulting in an intermittent but persistent tremor.”

With a weary huff, Emsworth consults his notes. 

“Wretched business,” he mutters, shaking his head. “A man of your skills, Watson, should never had been risked on the battlefield. The Army will be sorry to lose you.”

John’s throat goes dry. “L-lose me?” he stammers. “I don’t want to leave, sir. I may not be any use as a surgeon, but there are other things I could do-”

“Your attitude does you proud, Captain,” the Colonel says with an approving nod. “But until that shoulder has fully healed - until you can walk without limping - you’d be a liability in combat. Your general fitness has been severely compromised. It says here that you’ve lost muscle tone, lung capacity and your heart’s been weakened. We have no choice, I’m afraid, but to classify you NMD and send you home. Someone will put you in touch with RCS. They do fine work, you know.”

Even though he was half-prepared for the ruling, John still finds it hard to process and, for a long moment, he can’t respond. Being invalided out of the Army means not only losing his job, but his friends and colleagues too. There’s nothing for him back home any more - not even the prospect of suitable work. He nods mutely, brings his heels together as smartly as he can and raises his right arm in salute.

“Yessir,” he barks out, the way he was taught during training at Netley. “Thank you, sir.”

Rising to his feet, Emsworth returns the salute. 

“Thank you, Captain Watson. Dismissed.”  
 

________________

   
The next morning, after a night poring over Lestrade's paperwork on Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Fillimore, Sherlock is more convinced than ever that there’s a pattern to these so-called suicides. His latest evidence is that the autopsies on both Patterson and Fillimore found signs of gonorrhoeal infection (one cured, one ongoing). So, after remembering to fortify himself against the Earthian air by ingesting some of the planet’s more useful nutrients (coffee, tobacco, toast and an apple), he makes straight for Lestrade’s office at Scotland Yard.

It’s a far from private one. It may have a lockable door, but the the walls are practically all windows - windows through which a very disgruntled Donovan and Anderson keep shooting Sherlock black looks. He pointedly ignores them.

Lestrade is too preoccupied to be concerned about his underlings. He’s pacing about, running an anxious hand through his hair.

“You’re sure?” he asks. “You’re really sure? I’ve never seen one. Me and the wife … we never had any-”

“Just as well,” Sherlock says briskly. “Or they might be in the mortuary too. Meanwhile, to answer your question - I’m as sure as I can be without the proper blood tests.”

Lestrade is still unconvinced.

“But aren’t they supposed to be massively tall?” he argues. “Giants? I’m sure I’ve heard they’re giants.” He spreads the paperwork out on his desk again, and riffles through it, reading aloud. “Five six. Five eleven. Six one. Nothing gigantic about any of them.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “A misunderstanding. They’re not tall, necessarily. But being half-Angel, they tend to rise to the top. ‘High-placed’ would be a better translation.”

“But Fillimore was just a spotty kid!”

“A spotty kid destined for great things, according to his tutors.”

“He went to Roland Kerr Further Ed, Sherlock - not bloody Oxbridge.”

“Great things in _sport_.”

“Oh.” Lestrade’s shoulders sag for a moment, then he reaches for another, less difficult, explanation. “You’re sure the victims weren’t just talented humans?”

Sherlock gives a snort of disdain. “Talented humans? Do they even exist? Look at your forensics officer, for example - Anderson. Five years at university, I bet, plus one as a lab technician - and does he manage to notice physical similarities between the bodies he’s sent to work on? Short answer: no. Are you sure you want him on your team? It’ll do your reputation no good, if he’s always this incompetent-”

“Forget Anderson,” Lestrade interrupts. “This is serious. If someone is going around London, killing Nephilim, it means someone out there knows about them. About us.”

Sherlock presses his hands together, enjoying the way the soft leather of his gloves yields to the pressure, and he smiles. “So it would seem.”

“Don’t smile!” Lestrade cries. “There’s nothing to smile about. This is dangerous!”

Sherlock grins. “I know. Isn’t it brilliant?” He checks his watch. Two o’clock. “Sorry. Got to dash. I’m waiting for a phone call from Death Row.”

He’s almost out of the door when something occurs to him. He stops. Turns. 

“This stays between us, Lestrade.”

The Fallen’s brow furrows, and Sherlock can see a protest forming on his lips. He holds up a hand to silence it.

“Between _us_ , Lestrade. No-one else. Not Anderson. Not Donovan. And definitely not my brother.”  
 

________________

   
Harry’s drunk. Rip-roaring drunk. She passed ‘affable’ an hour ago, then ‘maudlin’ and is now borderline aggressive. And still drinking. It’s a pattern John knows all too well. He tried to protect her from it - her and Mum both - but he was just a kid. One punch and he was down. Every bloody time.

And now Harry’s just like him. Like Dad. An angry, frustrated alcoholic who’s ready to explode. John shouldn’t have come here.

“Have another drink,” Harry urges, shoving a dirty glass into his hand. Inevitably, she misses as she tries to fill it, and ends up pouring vodka all over John's sleeve. “Let’s drown our sorrows.”

If only it were that easy, John thinks. Insane as it sounds, sometimes he envies his sister’s ability to numb herself with alcohol. It’s always had the opposite effect on him, opening him up and ripping bloody great holes in the walls that are supposed to protect him.

“Wassamatter?” Harry slurs, stumbling from one foot to the other as she tries again to fill his glass. “Don’t wanna drink with your sister?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” John says, smiling sadly, “it’s more that I _can’t_. I never had your stamina.”

Harry jerks upright, staggers and plants her feet. 

“Wassat s'pposed to mean? Tha’s the kinda crap Clara always came out with, stuck up bitch. I’m better off without her. Tha’s why I left. You’re stuck up too. Think you’re better than.”

“No, Harry, no. I really don’t-”

“Yes, you do. You’re just like her. The only people I care about, they all hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Harry. I just don’t want any more to drink.”

John reaches out, to squeeze her hand, to offer reassurance. She slaps it away.

“Fuck off, then. Go on. Fuck off back to the Army and get yourself shot again. See if I care.” She takes a step forward, wobbles a bit, then throws herself into an armchair, where she takes a swig of vodka straight from the neck of the bottle.

“Harry-”

“Fuck off.”

 

In the morning, John packs his bags. He can’t bear this any more. He has his own demons to deal with, his own ghosts to lay. Harry’s not the only one who had a shitty childhood.

She stumbles in on him just as he’s zipping up his case. She’s pale-faced, her eyes are bloodshot, and her hands are trembling worse than his own.

“John. Please. Last night. I’m sorry.”

She’s always sorry the next day. Just like Dad. As if their attacks weren’t enough to be dealing with, John gets to feel guilty about how apologies don't change anything as well. Lucky him.

“I know you are,” he says, quietly. “I’m sorry too. But I’m not well, Harry. I need …” He trails off, unsure what he needs. He meant to stay ‘peace’ when he started speaking, but peace is no easier to deal with than war. He tries again. “I need to be useful.” Being a doctor used to do that for him, but now that’s been stolen away as well, like everything else.

He lifts his case from the bed and sets it on the floor whilst he buttons his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Harry asks.

John shrugs. “I don’t know. London, maybe. They always need doctors there.”

Harry nods, quiet and stoic.

There’s nothing else to say. John grasps the handle of his case, takes a step towards the door.

“Here!” Harry grabs his arm and presses something into his free hand. He looks down at it. It’s a mobile phone. One of those fancy ones with email and music, and a camera. “Take it.”

“Harry, I can’t-”

“Take it,” she says, hoarsely, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Keep in touch, yeah?”

John thinks about insisting she take the phone back, but he can’t. It would be too final a farewell. Instead, he nods and slips it into his pocket. “I will.”

There’s an awkward silence, neither of them knowing what to say. Then Harry barges him gently in the shoulder and says, “Take care, yeah? Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble, okay?”

John kisses her cheek. “Harry - when do I ever get into trouble?”  
 

________________

   
The message from Management is very clear: _Your brother is becoming distracted from the mission. Get him into line._

Mycroft sighs, wondering what Sherlock's done now. Management make it sound easy, but they’ve never had to deal with him. They have no idea … Mycroft drops his head into his hands, despairing. This isn’t the first order of its type he’s been given, and he probably won’t fare any better at executing it this time either. Sherlock was bound to get bored on Earth. He needs a challenge, hands-on experiments, something to engage him fully, twenty-four seven. Giving him a whole city to work on was doomed to failure from the start. What Sherlock needs is detail. Focus.

Suddenly, Mycroft has the answer.

He picks up his phone, and taps in a number, heart quivering in time with the ringing tone.

At last, a voice answers. 

“Mike Stamford speaking. Hello?”

“Mike. It's Mycroft Holmes. I’ve got a job for you. I can’t promise you anything in return, but … well, maybe I could put a word in…”

“What do you need?”

“A test subject. For my brother. The best you can find. Someone who embodies the very best and the worst of humanity.” Mycroft pauses, considering. “Oh, yes, and it would help greatly if it were someone who’s looking for a room.”


	3. Trust Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” Sherlock warns. “I’ve made up my mind.”_
> 
> _“You’re going to share your accommodation with an Earthian?” Mycroft says, ladling on the distaste: Sherlock will be suspicious if he doesn't express disapproval. “I give it a week. You’ll tire of its dreary little ways - or you’ll drive it away by being impossible, as usual.”_
> 
> _“I doubt that very much,” Sherlock replies. “If anything, I think it’s rather taken with me. You should have seen how it looked at me when I explained how I knew it was looking for a flat.”_
> 
> _Mycroft smiles. Everything is going beautifully to plan._

Ten years ago, living in London was fun. But back then, John had friends, and somewhere to live, and his whole life ahead of him. Things are very different now.

Which is why he’s here, in this soft-focus, healy-feely consulting room, complete with pot plants and comfy chairs, where everything's designed to make him feel relaxed and like opening up. _Ha!_ Ella Thompson isn’t a doctor; John doesn't see why he should bare his soul to her. The only reason he's here at all is that he promised James - Major Sholto - that he'd give therapy a try.

This is his third session. It's not working.

"Let's talk about your life before the Army," Ella says, after the usual, pointless niceties. "Where's home?"

John stares at the ropes of beads around her neck. Plastic. Plastic beads for a plastic job.

"The Army is home. Was."

Ella tries again. "Where were you brought up?" 

She's persistent, John will give her that - but nothing more.

"I'm sorry. How is that relevant?"

She scribbles something on her notepad and, watching, John seethes. The woman has no qualifications, no medical training of any kind. How can she possibly imagine she can help him?

"How's your blog going?" she asks, changing tack once more.

_Blog! What a stupid idea that was!_

"Yeah, good." John lies. "Very good."

Ella's disturbingly still as she looks back at him, her eyes infuriatingly kind. 

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

"And you just wrote 'still has trust issues'," John counters, eyeing her notepad. He doesn't have trust issues: he's got _wisdom_. Experience he's learnt from. It's not the same.

Ella smiles, pointing her pen accusingly. "And you read my writing upside down - you see what I mean? John - you're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

John stares back at her, unconvinced.

" _Nothing_ happens to me."

Not any more. Civilian life is pointless, boring and grey.  
 

________________

   
Hudson takes the news of her husband’s death with all the solemnity and sorrow Sherlock expected. She opens a large bottle of cheap sherry, fills a wine glass right to the brim and downs the whole lot in one.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she exclaims. “I could kiss you!”

He takes a precautionary step back. “Don't."

A wicked twinkle comes into Hudson’s eyes. She sidles up to him again and elbows him in the ribs.

“Oh, go on. You never know - you might like it!”

“Exchanging saliva?” Sherlock shudders. “I don’t think so.”

“You won’t know until you try, dear,” Hudson says, with a grin that has Sherlock hurrying out of her flat and into the hall and making very sure her front door has closed behind him.

She's old, he reminds himself. Arthritic. He could easily outrun her. Then again, he has absolutely no data on how fast a newly widowed Fallen might be able to move.

It would probably be better to leave the building.

With no particular destination in mind, Sherlock finds himself wandering the streets of Westminster aimlessly and it’s almost a relief when his phone buzzes, even though it will mean talking to Mycroft.

But it’s not Mycroft. It’s a text from Stamford instead.

_Davenport blood test results ready._

Sherlock’s grip on the phone tightens, a thrill of anticipation running through him. His Nephilim theory may be soon be proved right. He steps out into the street and flags down a taxi.

 

Twenty minutes later, it’s dropping him off outside Bart’s and he’s flying up the stairs to Stamford’s lab.

Inside, everything is still and calm. Stamford is sitting at the table, weighing what seems to be an Earthian heart, but as Sherlock lets the door bang shut behind him, he raises his head, nods in acknowledgement and slides gently off his seat.

“That was quick,” he says, ambling over to a desk in the corner without the slightest hint of urgency. “There was no rush. Haven’t even looked at them properly myself yet.”

He picks up a manilla folder and starts leafing through its contents - sheet by slow, slow sheet, until Sherlock can stand it no more. He barges him aside and snatches them up.

The box at the top of the printout in his hand reads: Elizabeth Anne Davenport. Below it, there’s a table, full of numbers. Scanning it, Sherlock feels his heartbeat speed up.

Haemoglobin levels, neutrophils, platelets, glucose … all the numbers are entirely consistent with Angelic physiology. Some show a non-significant variation from the norm, but that’s to be expected given Earth’s sub-optimal atmosphere. Sherlock clenches a fist in triumph. He was _right_. Elizabeth Anne Davenport - Junior Minister for Transport - was a Nephilim. Just like the others. Just like Fillimore and Patterson.

He shoves the printout and the rest of the documentation back into the file and slaps it shut.

Looking up again, he finds Stamford regarding him curiously, grey eyes incongruously sharp in that podgy, bespectacled face.

Sherlock clasps the file to his chest, and gives it a little pat. “Lestrade is clueless. This should help.”

“The Met were happy to let you in, then?" Stamford asks. "Nobody complaining about you being an outsider?”

Small talk is not Sherlock’s area, but he supposes he’d better make some. 

“There was a bit of moaning, yes. Bit of bitching behind my back, too, I bet - but not from anyone who matters. Lestrade is one of us.”

“Ah, yes.” Stamford nods, sagely. “I thought so. And how’re your digs? Comfy?”

A sudden vision of Hudson and their earlier encounter flashes into Sherlock’s mind. ‘Comfy’ is not the word he’d use to describe it. ‘Horrifying’ would be closer. He hesitates.

Stamford's expression turns sympathetic. “Not great?”

“No. The digs are … fine.”

“But …?”

Sherlock hesitates again.

“Have you …” he begins uncertainly, then clears his throat and adopts a brisk, more business-like tone. “Have you ever had any dealings with Fallen females? Elderly Fallen females?”

Stamford’s eyes widen. 

“Don’t tell me your brother’s made you lodge with Martha Hudson! Ooh, you’re in trouble there. Bit of a goer, that one. Used to be a pole dancer, back in the day. I'd hide behind the other lodgers, if I were you.”

Sherlock stares at him, speechless with horror.

“Oh,” Stamford murmurs. “It’s just you and her, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock can’t help it - his voice wobbles.

Stamford gives a low whistle. “Well then, my advice is - get out. Get out quick. Or get yourself a flat-mate. Safety in numbers, and all that.”

“Where would _I_ find a flat-mate?” Sherlock demands, furious: he’s been set up. He should have realized Mycroft agreed to let him live alone far too easily. Mycroft’s always been jealous. He’d love to see Sherlock Fall. Then again, probably not - because that would reflect badly on _him_. What Mycroft wants is Sherlock having to come crawling back with his tail between his legs so that he can gloat.

Sherlock’s damned if he’ll give him the satisfaction - not when the solution is obvious.

“Stamford,” he says, striding towards the door. “Get me a flat-mate. And get me one quickly.”  
 

________________

   
It’s funny how quickly things can change, John thinks, following Mike through the achingly familiar doorway into Bart’s. When he left his dismal little studio flat earlier, it was with the intention of taking a farewell trip around his old haunts: his army pension is nowhere near enough to cover renting in London these days. In fact, he was pretty much resigned to the thought of going back to Chelmsford and Harry, when a half-forgotten voice called out his name - and now here he is, limping up Bart’s back stairs, heading for the Path Lab to meet a friend of Mike Stamford's who can’t afford a flat in London on his own either.

It’s an amazing coincidence, made all the more amazing by the fact that Mike Stamford is the last person John would have expected to be his saviour. They were never particularly close, and John seriously doubts he’d have recognized him had Mike not spoken first: Mike’s changed so much physically. Well, they both have - John’s painfully aware of that. There was a time when he’d have run up these stairs.

Bart’s interior has changed too. The lighting’s harsher, the surfaces smoother and easier to clean. Where once there were wooden floors with deep, torus skirting boards gathering dirt in their crevices, there’s now a smooth sweep of linoleum from the floor to part-way up the wall. The old varnished benches have been replaced with antimicrobial work surfaces and the computers are far smaller and more numerous.

The lab itself is much better equipped than John remembers, too - the main work table is positively heaving with microscopes and lamps, weighing scales and conical jars - and as he tries to take it all in, he becomes aware there's someone else in the room too - a slender figure in stark black and white on the periphery of his vision. John deliberately doesn't look in its direction: he has an instinct for danger and it’s just started bleeping. But when the man speaks, John has no choice but to turn to face him: he doesn't want to seem rude - or, worse still, intimidated.

He finds himself looking at a man of about his own age - a little younger, perhaps - and he’d assume he's Mike’s lab-mate were he not like something from the pages of a glossy magazine. A well cut dark suit echoes his extravagant black hair; a flawless white shirt the pallor of his skin. He’s not handsome by any measure John's familiar with but, with those high cheekbones and that sharp profile, he’s definitely striking, and John’s radar starts bleeping all over again.

The man wants to borrow Mike’s phone - which strikes John as odd. Those clothes must have cost him a fortune and yet he doesn’t have a phone? Not that it’s any of John’s business, he realizes, with a sudden prickle of embarrassment. He supposes that's what makes him offer his own phone when Mike says his is downstairs.

A pair of extraordinary eyes - too small for that face but unusually clear - glance in John's direction, and the man rises from his seat. He's tall and thin, but graceful, and if ever John needed proof that life’s not fair, then this bloke is it.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

The question comes out of the blue.

“Sorry?” John stutters, and the question’s repeated - this time with a piercing look that makes his stomach clench and sends a shiver up his spine. 

Mercifully, John’s discomfiture is cut short by the arrival of a woman in a lab coat, carrying a mug of coffee. She’s young and pretty, and positively glowing with health, and as she hands the mug over, John feels a fierce stab of envy. He’s none of those things any more. No wonder she doesn’t notice him. She only has eyes for Mr Tall and Thin and Graceful who - far from enjoying the attention - tells her bluntly that her mouth's too small to go without lipstick. Part of John is appalled by the sheer lack of sensitivity in those words, but a larger part of him can’t help thinking that the mouth they came from is definitely not too small; it’s as extraordinary as the man’s eyes.

John catches himself just in time. Looking another man in the eye is one thing; gazing at his lips something else entirely.

“How do you feel about the violin?” the man asks, reclaiming John’s attention when he tries to focus it on the woman leaving the room instead.

The question throws him yet again. 

"I'm sorry - what?"

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” Definitely Not Too Small Mouth explains. “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other.” 

The rapid flow of words ends as suddenly as it began, with a quick flash of smile.

John’s too shocked to smile back. Because - _shit!_ \- it’s finally dawned on him. _This_ is the friend of Mike’s who’s looking for a flat-mate.

 _Wait a minute._ Why would this bloke want to share with anyone, let alone a complete stranger? He can’t be short of money - not in those clothes. He’s well-off, possibly even filthy rich, going by his general demeanour - and rich people always have friends. And people who want to be their friends. If it’s company this bloke’s looking for, why isn’t he sharing with one of them?

As John stands trying to puzzle it out, his _potential flat-mate_ dons a coat - a beautifully tailored and expensive sweep of dark wool, high collared and full-skirted. With his cloud of black curls, it makes him look like a dashing highwayman - romantic, but dangerous. John makes a mental note never to say that kind of thing out loud. He can’t believe he’s even thinking it.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London,” the man is saying, making for the door. “Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock. Sorry. Got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Leaving aside the casual mention of a riding crop, his assumption that John will fall meekly into line is pretty damn breath-taking and, predictably, John bristles.

“Is that it?” he demands.

Mike’s friend stops dead in his tracks and turns. 

“Is that _what_?” he asks, and stalks back over in a swirl of coat-tails and sharp-eyed focus. His voice has taken on a slightly hard edge and the quiet threat in it makes John's pulse start racing. He knew this bloke was dangerous.

He raises his chin. Grips the handle of his walking stick tighter.

”We’ve only just met,” he says, and his voice is hard-edged too, “and we’re going to go and look at a flat. We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.”

There’s a pause, and once again John is pinned under that uncompromising gaze. Hearing its owner inhale, he braces himself, half-expecting some kind of physical attack. Instead, he’s subjected to a quick-fire rattle of words.

“I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him. Possibly because he’s an alcoholic. More likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

As John reels a little from this onslaught, Mike’s friend strides away. He’s almost out of the door, when he stops and ducks his head back around it to add, “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

And with that, the man - Holmes - is gone. John feels as if all the air has been sucked from his lungs. He turns uncertainly to Mike.

“Yes,” Mike nods, before John can even ask the question. “He’s always like that.”  
 

________________

   
“Sherlock!” Mycroft says warmly when Sherlock finally deigns to answer his phone. On Earth, there’s no need to worry about sounding affectionate.

As usual, Sherlock sounds anything but. “ _Mycroft_. What do you want?”

His hostile tone, though anticipated, still hurts and Mycroft wishes, yet again, that he had his brother’s facility for Detachment.

“As the leader of this mission,” he sniffs, “I am more than entitled to ask my subordinates to submit regular reports. It is also my right to check up on them when they fail to comply. If you were more forthcoming, you’d save us both this kind of inconvenience.”

There’s a lengthy silence, then Sherlock gives a pointed sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Everything of importance, that is. How's the police work?”

“It’s giving me a wonderful opportunity to observe the worst of humanity up close. Anderson’s an idiot and Donovan does nothing but snipe. Thanks for that.”

“Good, good,” Mycroft purrs. That’s the formalities out of the way. Time to move on. “And how are you enjoying your flat?”

There’s a long pause. 

“Why? What have you heard?”

 _Careful, now._ Mycroft lifts a pen from the desktop and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. The smoothness of the gold casing is pleasantly soothing. 

“What might I have heard?” he asks, lightly.

Another pause. Then Sherlock launches into a defiant rush of accusation. “You thought you were _so_ clever, didn’t you, sticking me here on my own with Hudson. Well, I’m wise to you, brother dear, and it won’t work. I’m getting a flat-mate.”

"Are you?" Mycroft has to check himself to avoid sounding delighted: Sherlock obviously thinks the notion his own idea.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” Sherlock warns. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“You’re going to share your accommodation with an _Earthian_?” Mycroft says, ladling on the distaste: Sherlock will be suspicious if he doesn't express disapproval. “I give it a week. You’ll tire of its dreary little ways - or _you’ll_ drive _it_ away by being impossible, as usual.”

“I doubt that very much,” Sherlock replies. “If anything, I think it’s rather taken with me. You should have seen how it looked at me when I explained how I knew it was looking for a flat.”

Mycroft smiles. Everything is going beautifully to plan.  
 

________________

   
As the taxi turns into Baker Street, Sherlock catches sight of Stamford’s Earthian, limping along the pavement, and leaning heavily on its walking stick. He checks his watch. He told the creature ‘seven o’clock’ and here it is, at six fifty-nine, ready to present arms - or whatever it is ex-soldiers do - right on the stroke of seven. Sherlock frowns. He wasn't expecting this level of obedience. It’s disappointing. In the lab yesterday, he thought he detected a wilful streak in the creature. If all it’s ever going to do is follow orders, it’s hardly going to be representative of its species.

Worse still, it'll be boring.

The taxi pulls into the kerb a few seconds before the Earthian makes it to 221B's front door. Sherlock waits until the creature has drawn level before getting out, attracting its attention with a simple 'Hello'.

It turns, the surprised expression on its square little face shifting into something that's gone far too quickly for Sherlock to identify.

“Ah, Mr Holmes.”

The Earthian is breathless - and for a moment, Sherlock entertains the hypothesis that this might indicate a sudden increase in its adrenalin levels (arousal? fear?) but he quickly dismisses it. The thing is merely tired. It seems to have made its way here on foot, and it’s far from fit.

As Sherlock approaches, the Earthian extends a hand and Sherlock takes it, regretting his decision to wear gloves. (Skin temperature and perspiration levels can be so informative when it comes to assessing an animal’s emotional state.)

It’s hard to tell whether Sherlock giving the creature permission to use his first name puts it more or less at ease. Its conversation is disappointingly polite and bland.

Sherlock decides a little provocation is in order.

“Mrs Hudson - the landlady - she’s giving me a special deal,” he says. “Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

“You stopped her husband being executed?”

Sherlock looks the Earthian directly in the eye. 

“Oh, no - I ensured it.”

Sadly, before it's able to respond to this revelation, thereby furnishing Sherlock with data that might actually be useful, Hudson opens the front door and invites them in. She follows them up to the flat - where she hovers, fussing, and doubtless taking notes for Mycroft, too.

Sherlock ignores her, in favour of watching the Earthian scan the room. The hint of an approving smile tugs at the corners of its mouth but it doesn’t smile. (Not given to obvious displays of emotion, then.) (A point in its favour. It will make analysing it more challenging.) (Stroke of luck, Stamford finding it.) (Two birds with one stone: flat-mate and case-study.)

“Well,” the creature says, oblivious, “this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely.” 

Suddenly, he realizes that his story about needing a flat-mate may be on the point of collapsing: his things are everywhere. Have been for weeks. 

“So I went straight ahead and moved in.”

The Earthian appears shocked. “Oh. So, this is all-”

“Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit.” Sherlock goes over to the mantelpiece to make a show of tidying up by sticking a knife through a few letters.

Meanwhile Hudson is wittering about bedrooms and neighbours, and generally getting in the way. Sherlock can sense the Earthian growing wary of her; can practically hear the wheels turning in its small-brained head. Any moment now, faced with the prospect of Hudson’s constant interference, it will decide 221B could be more trouble than it’s worth.

Sherlock’s only option is to resort to a spot of glamouring. It’s a cheap trick he’s always despised, and far more Archangel territory than his, but this is an emergency. He starts shifting things about again under the pretence of more tidying, but his purpose now is to soothe the Earthian, to hypnotise and reel it in, so he moves with a slow, fluid grace, creating perfect lines with his arms and back. The Earthian _has_ to want to live here.

 _John_ , Sherlock thinks, suddenly. If he’s to be at all persuasive, he must think of it as ‘John’. Moving smoothly across the room, he removes his coat and unwinds his scarf. He can feel the creature - _John_ \- watching; knows John’s beginning to succumb to his spell. (Fascination is rolling off him in waves.) (Any moment now, he'll be begging to sign the lease-)

\- which - of course - is when Lestrade decides to turn up in a police car, lights flashing, sirens wailing.

Sherlock can barely contain his irritation. Is this what Earthian life is like? A complete muddle of events, nothing smoothly linear? No wonder Earthians resort to violence and murder. He’s feeling a temptation in that direction himself.

“What’s new about this one?” he demands, as Lestrade puffs and pants his way into the room. “You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

For all his laboured breathing, the Fallen looks smug. “You know how they never leave a note? This one did. Will you come?”

Sherlock’s conflicted. A note could lead him straight to the Nephilim killer; on the other hand, there’s John to consider - an actual, living, breathing Earthian. His lab rat and his protection against Hudson. Sherlock darts him a glance.

John is scarcely breathing, his whole body alert, his gaze fixed on Sherlock. Sherlock looks away again but, out of the corner of his eye, he sees John’s tongue come out to lick his lips. (Hunger.) (Interest.) (Perhaps Lestrade's intrusion isn't such a bad thing after all.)

“Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock asks.

Lestrade pulls a face. “It’s Anderson.”

Sherlock swallows a grin, and looks at John. 

“Anderson won’t work with me.” 

It's the perfect opportunity for the Earthian to volunteer his services - as a doctor and a soldier, he’s more than qualified - but John says nothing. Even when Sherlock declares himself in need of an assistant. In the end, he gives up. He doesn’t have time for wooing witless Earthians - not when there are Nephilim dying in interesting ways all over London. John Watson will have to wait. 

Sherlock puts on his coat, and races down to the stairs.  
 

________________

   
221B's sitting room feels a lot larger without Sherlock in it. A lot duller too. John's not even sure he likes the bloke - there's something distinctly unsettling about him - but he can't deny he's interesting, and he wishes now he'd gone with him. At least he'd have a better idea of what kind of man Sherlock is; of whether sharing a flat with him might work. There was a time when John would have leapt at the chance for a bit of excitement. He still would, if he were fitter, but he's got a shattered shoulder, and a leg and a hand that don't work properly. He curses them all, and curses Sherlock for being so infuriatingly vigorous; then shouts at Mrs Hudson, when she’s only trying to be nice.

He regrets it immediately. He's not the kind of man who yells at women. He's not Dad. Embarrassed by his outburst, he snatches up a newspaper and shakes it out, pretending to read. It’s no good getting angry. This is his life now; he'll just have to get used to it.

He might have missed the photo on the paper’s front page if the face staring out at him weren’t as gloom-ridden as he feels. John blinks at it in surprise. It's the man Sherlock's just gone after - a man who, according to this article, is a Detective Inspector. John frowns. Why would a _Detective Inspector_ be desperate for _Sherlock’s_ help?

John reads the article closely, looking for answers.

“You’re a doctor.”

The unexpected sound of Sherlock’s voice, pitched soft and low, raises the hair on the back of John’s neck. He looks up to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, pulling on a pair of black, leather gloves, and his heart beats faster.

“In fact,” Sherlock continues, in the same deep rumble, “you’re an army doctor. Any good?”

John’s not used to blowing his own trumpet but something is happening here - something potentially exciting. He gets to his feet. Takes a breath and exhales it. 

“ _Very_ good.”

Still tugging on his gloves, Sherlock comes closer and the pulse in John’s throat starts to thud.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then,” Sherlock says. “Violent deaths."

The words spark a cascade of images in John's head - all of them dangerous and some bloody terrifying.

"Yes," he says. _Firmly_. Because Sherlock needs an assistant and John's almost sure he's on the brink of being asked to fulfil that role. After months of tedium, it's a dizzying prospect.

“Bit of trouble, too, I bet.”

“Of course, yes.” John nods. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Sherlock smiles, for the briefest of moments, and his eyes lock with John’s. “Want to see some more?”

What else can John say, but yes?

 

An hour later, he’s wondering what the hell possessed him.

The taxi ride to Lauriston Gardens was bad enough - what with Sherlock deducing everything about Harry and Clara, and John’s lack of friends - but the crime scene was worse. First of all, Inspector Lestrade failed to recognize him. Never mind that they’d been in the same room together only forty-five minutes earlier. Then there was the body. In Afghanistan, John saw some grisly and shocking deaths, but there he’d had a role to play. In 3 Lauriston Gardens, all he could do was stand by and watch.

If only watching was all he’d done, but no - he felt the need to gush as well, marvelling at everything Sherlock said. As he limps down the twisting staircase, John can hardly blame Sherlock for pissing off without warning. In his position, he’d probably have done the same.

Out on the street, there’s still a lot of police activity: plain clothes officers interviewing neighbours, uniformed cops talking on radios, panda cars and crime scene tape. More purposeful activity John’s not part of. People scarcely spare him a glance as he walks past. Coming here was a mistake; contemplating sharing a flat with Sherlock a bigger one. Sherlock is brilliant and John’s just … _not_.

He decides to slip quietly away. Tomorrow, he’ll email Sherlock and tell him he’s changed his mind. After that … He has no idea.

“He’s gone,” a woman’s voice says, making John start. He sees it's Sergeant Donovan - the policewoman Sherlock humiliated earlier. “He just took off. He does that.”

“Is he coming back?”

Sergeant Donovan shakes her head.

“Didn’t look like it,” she says, without sympathy. She’s clearly itching to put John straight on the subject of Sherlock Holmes but he doesn’t want to hear it. There’s no point in learning anything more - it’s not as if their paths are ever going to cross again - but as John starts hobbling away, the sergeant calls after him.

“You’re not his friend. He doesn’t have friends. So, who are you?”

John shrugs. “I’m nobody. I just met him.”

Something vicious flickers across Donovan’s face. 

“Okay,” she says. “Bit of advice, then. Stay away from that guy.”

John doesn’t like her tone. He doesn’t like her manner. In fact, he doesn’t like anything about her. She reminds him of Dad.

“Why?”

Donovan gives him a patronizing smile. 

“You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And d’you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there.”

She thinks it’s a knock-out blow, that John will crumple and admit that he's picked the wrong side. That he's wrong.

He stands taller.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a psychopath and psychopaths get bored.”

It’s on the tip of John’s tongue to demand what makes Donovan feel qualified to make such a specific and difficult diagnosis, but Lestrade calls her away before he gets the chance. Her parting shot as she goes over to join her boss is, “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

It’s enough to make John wonder if he shouldn’t move in with Sherlock, after all. He takes out his phone and calls Mike.

“John.” Mike sounds wary.

“Yeah. Hi. Hello.” John hesitates. The pause goes on too long.

“Something you wanted?”

John clears his throat. 

“Yeah, I … In the lab, yesterday - you said something about Sherlock always being … a bit unusual, yeah?”

Mike chuckles. “Master of understatement, me.”

“So, if I told you he dragged me off to a crime scene, and then just disappeared, it wouldn’t sound strange?”

“Everything he does is strange,” Mike replies, still chuckling. “He gets fixated on something - everything else flies right out the window.”

“Right.” John nods. “That’s good. I thought …” He stops. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“You all right for getting home?” Mike asks. “D’you want me to come and fetch you?”

“No, no,” John says hurriedly, embarrassed. “I’ll be fine. I’ll get a taxi. I just-”

“We should go out for a drink some time,” Mike says, cutting him off. "Do a bit of reminiscing. When you’re settled in.”

It’s been ages since John went out for a quiet drink with a mate. He’s missed it - the familiarity, the company.

“Yeah. Right,” he says, thinking fondly of decent beer and flirtatious barmaids. “Let’s do that.”

It’s only after he ends the call that he realizes how very badly he wants to stay in London.  
 

________________

   
At 9.30 pm, Lestrade phones in, exactly as instructed.

“Gregory,” Mycroft says, pleased. “Tell me what happened.”

“Sherlock’s found us something to work on. He reckons there ought to be a suitcase-”

“I wasn’t talking about your police work.”

“Oh. No, ’course you weren’t. Not much to tell you, really. Other than, yeah, it looks like your plan's going to work. Watson seems pretty awestruck, to tell you the truth.”

All of a sudden, Mycroft has misgivings. This could be dangerous. Sherlock may not feel affection or desire, but he craves admiration to an unhealthy extent. If Sherlock’s Earthian starts hero-worshipping him, his self-importance is likely to become much worse - to the point where his arrogance and insubordination place him direct opposition to Management.

Mycroft ends the call without a goodbye. It’s no good: he won’t be able to rest until he’s seen this soldier fellow for himself.

Fortunately, the Home Office is equipped with a vast array of surveillance systems from the very obvious to the very discreet. Mycroft chooses something towards the more obvious end of the spectrum - central London’s network of security cameras - and settles down in front of a bank of television screens for a spot of remote viewing.

His first impression of John Watson, as the Earthian emerges onto Coldharbour Lane, is one of mild underwhelm: with his walking stick and battle-ravaged body, Watson hardly cuts an imposing figure. Slight of frame. Shorter than average. Mousy hair. Undistinguished face. In fact, there’s something so very bland about him that were Sherlock not so susceptible to flattery, or Watson less likely to supply it, Mycroft’s mind would be instantly at peace.

Regrettably, neither of those conditions apply.

 

Half an hour later, Mycroft's in a disused warehouse in Lewisham, waiting for Watson to arrive. He knows the unfortunate situation he finds himself in is one of his own making: asking Stamford to select a suitable test subject for Sherlock was a mistake. He should have done it himself.

At the sound of the car pulling up outside the warehouse, Mycroft arranges his body into a pose suggestive of both extreme confidence and extreme power, and waits. The setting is perfect: isolated and stark enough to inspire the beginnings of fear.

Watson feels it immediately, Mycroft can tell. There’s a defensiveness to the set of the Earthian's shoulders, and grim determination in his lop-sided walk.

“Have a seat,” Mycroft offers, indicating the single, hard-backed chair he chose earlier. “John.”

Ignoring the invitation, Watson continues his painful advance. 

“You know,” the little soldier says, jaw tight, expression mutinous, “I’ve got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that-” He glances about him in a way designed to show that he’s well aware of the stage Mycroft’s set and totally uncowed by it. “-but you could just phone me. On my phone.”

Again, Mycroft urges him to sit but Watson stands his ground. “I don’t want to sit down.”

His attitude is not at all what Mycroft expected. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

Hard-eyed, Watson stares back. “You don’t seem very frightening.”

And so the interview proceeds, with the Earthian quietly but determinedly resisting every attempt at intimidation, bribery or coercion. Mycroft is torn. In some ways, he’s even more worried than before - flattery from someone so unflinchingly direct will inevitably turn Sherlock’s head - and yet he can’t help being delighted with Mike’s selection. The Earthian has hidden depths. If Sherlock can work out what motivates him, his findings could be invaluable in solving the whole Earthian problem.

And _that_ would be a much-needed feather in both their caps.  
 

________________

   
Jennifer Wilson’s pink case is painfully easy to find. Sherlock retrieves it from a skip not five hundred yards from the back of Lauriston Gardens and takes it back to Baker Street where he gives it a thorough spray with an all-purpose pesticide before unzipping it to take a look inside.

(Clothing, make-up and toiletries. Thick paperback novel - a romance. Some kind of hair-styling device, a change of shoes, a belt.) (And condoms. _Naturally_.)

Sherlock slaps on a couple of nicotine patches to help himself think, adds a third to be sure and throws himself down on the settee, to sift through the data and weave it into meaningful patterns.

He’s in no doubt Wilson was a Nephilim: all the obvious physical, social and intellectual data concurs. So - four dead Nephilim. In London - a city where almost no-one has even heard the term, let alone believes in the existence of Angel/human hybrids. _Almost_ no-one. Evidently there’s at least one exception. Sherlock closes his eyes. Presses his hands together. Slows his breathing. Thoughts swirl - images, impressions. History and data. Causes and effects. There’s no such thing as coincidence …

So the question is: Why London? Why now?  
 

________________

   
If there’s one thing guaranteed to put John’s back up, it’s some posh arsehole with a superiority complex thinking that just because he’s a soldier - _used to be_ a soldier - he’ll jump to it on just anyone’s say-so. Nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, it’s more likely to push him in the opposite direction. So, if that public school git with his fancy suit and stupid umbrella imagines a bit of homophobic smirking is going to put John off flat-sharing with Sherlock, then he’s going to be sorely disappointed. All he managed to do was to finish the job Sergeant Donovan started.

John’s feet feel light as he climbs the stairs to his rented rooms. He lets himself in, goes straight to the kitchen drawer and takes out his gun: life with Sherlock is going to be dangerous, in one way or another.

_Thank God._

Danger is useful. It clears the mind. Without it, there are too many things trying to claim John’s attention, too many critical voices muttering away in his head. 

Danger is simple. It gives him wings.  
 

________________

   
Anthea’s message is brief: _Dropped him off with his things at 221B._

Mycroft smiles.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock expected his text message to bring the Earthian running. It hasn’t. In fact, it takes the creature over an hour to turn up and, when John finally _does_ appear, he’s annoyingly distracted, and fails to follow even the simplest instructions.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks eventually, losing patience.

“Just met a friend of yours.”

”A friend?”

“An enemy. Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?”

 _People_ probably don’t. _Sherlock_ does. Every Arch he’s ever met has been an enemy, not to mention a complete pain in the neck. However, it’s highly unlikely an Arch would have stooped to talking to a mere Earthian - ergo John must mean Mycroft. He's keen to know who he was, of course, but Sherlock doesn't answer. Instead, he reminds the Earthian he’s supposed to be sending a text.

“On my desk. The number.”

At last John moves to obey and, whilst he fumbles with his keypad, Sherlock retrieves Wilson’s suitcase from the kitchen. He hopes the sight of it will shock John, that it will provoke him to accusations and anger, but the Earthian’s reaction is more one of disillusionment and regret.

Sherlock sighs. John is entirely too placid. What on Earth will it take to get under his skin?

“Perhaps I should mention I didn’t kill her.” 

“I never said you did."

“Why not?” Sherlock demands, trying to puzzle John out. Is this fairness? Defiance? Deeply held self-confidence? Sherlock scrutinizes his face but it’s giving nothing away. 

“Given the text I just had you send, and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption,” he says, throwing the words down like a gauntlet. John must somehow be shaken out of his complacency, because if he continues being so infuriatingly reasonable, Sherlock will have to get rid of him and endure the tedious process of finding a replacement.

“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?” John asks, frowning. He doesn’t want to believe that, Sherlock can tell, but at least he’s starting to entertain the possibility now, and it’s worrying him.

Sherlock smirks in triumph. 

“Now and then,” he says, delighted.

“Okay,” John says carefully, and looks at the case. “So, how did you get this?”  
 

________________

   
In his heart of hearts, John never really doubted Sherlock, but it's still a relief when he explains he came by Jennifer Wilson's case through sheer detective genius, not by killing anyone. Concentrating hard on trying to follow his reasoning, it takes John a while to realize the text Sherlock just had him send must have been to the murderer, but before he can decide how he feels about that, his phone rings.

_Caller I.D. : (withheld)_

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her," Sherlock says. "If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer ...would panic." 

As understanding dawns, John's skin starts to tingle. The text was _bait_. Sherlock's set a trap. John does his best to urge caution, suggests they call the police, but when Sherlock insists there's no time, he's glad, glad it's going to be just them. He wants to be at the forefront of the action again, no lurking on the sidelines and he's positively excited as they head off for Northumberland Street together.

It’s at times like this John really misses having a girlfriend. In the past couple of hours, he’s examined a murder victim and been abducted by Sherlock’s ‘arch-enemy’; now he’s off to lie in wait for a serial killer. It’s been bloody brilliant and the blood is rushing through his veins, making him buzz with energy. He feels strong again - _alive_ \- and this level of excitement has always made his thoughts turn to sex. Christ, if Sherlock were a woman, he’d probably be trying to seduce him. _Her_.

Sherlock leads the way in through the doors of a little Italian restaurant, and John absolutely does not watch the sway of his hips.

The rich smell of garlic and char-grilled meat hits him immediately, and his stomach rumbles. He smiles to himself: hunger is an appetite he _can_ satisfy.

A waiter seats them at a table at the window. Sherlock peels off his gloves, his coat, and unwinds his scarf. His neck, John notices - _again_ \- is ridiculously long, and pale. 

A second waiter approaches. This one’s older, greyer and heavier, and he grasps Sherlock by the hand, like they’re old friends - making it particularly discomfiting when he blithely assumes that John is Sherlock’s date. That’s twice in one day: first Mrs Hudson, now this. It’s enough to put a bloke off his food, and John swallows, uncomfortable. If people who know Sherlock think the two of them are about to leap into bed together, it must mean … _Oh, God_.

“I’m not his date,” John says, but no-one’s listening: the waiter - Angelo - has launched into a story about how much he owes Sherlock and why, and Sherlock is busy correcting the errors in his story. The only thing Sherlock _doesn’t_ bother correcting is Angelo’s assumption that he and John are a couple. Worse still, Sherlock doesn’t even feel moved to say anything when Angelo decides to fetch a candle to make the table ‘more romantic’. Repeating, “I’m not his date!” does John no good at all. He grits his teeth. That much ought to be obvious - because even if he _were_ gay, Sherlock’s clearly out of his league. With that hair, those eyes, that mouth, the man is criminally attractive. John’s more the bloke-next-door type.

Suddenly aware of the unsettling turn his thoughts have taken, John shifts on his seat. If he’s not careful, things are going to get really awkward. He takes the menu Sherlock hands him and studies it closely. Food. He needs to eat.

Angelo returns with a candle and plonks it down on the table. The flame flickers and the wax melts. It’s no good. John’s going to have to find out.

Even so, he waits until his food arrives. He feels somehow braver with a knife and fork in his hands.

“People don’t have arch-enemies,” he begins. “In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.”

“Doesn’t it?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Sounds a bit dull.”

“So who did I meet?” John presses. Stick to the facts. To what’s actually happened. Don’t get panicky about what might.

“What do real people have, then, in their ‘real lives’?” Sherlock asks, and he darts John a curious, sideways look.

It’s time. John chooses his words carefully. 

“Friends. People they know. People they like. People they don’t like. Girlfriends.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Boyfriends.”

“Yes,” Sherlock cuts in, his tone sharp. “As I was saying: dull.”

John swallows. “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

“Girlfriend?” Sherlock murmurs absently, as he gazes out into the street. “No. Not really my area.”

 _Oh, God._ John swallows again.

“D’you have a … boyfriend?”

Sherlock turns to meet John’s eyes. He doesn’t look amused.

“Which is fine, by the way,” John says hurriedly, because he really didn’t mean to offend. He doesn’t have anything against people being gay. Well, unless it goes along with being like Dad.

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock says, eyes narrowed, an edge in his voice.

Mortified, John offers him a quick, placatory smile. “So, you’ve got a boyfriend, then?”

“No.”

“Right. Okay.” John’s beyond embarrassed now. He knows he ought to shut up, but he doesn’t seem able. The words keep spilling from his lips. “You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.”

An excruciating silence follows - a silence that John tries to fill by shovelling in another mouthful of pasta and chewing, and one which, eventually, Sherlock breaks.

“John,” he says, more kindly that John has any right to expect, “I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and, whilst I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any-”

“No,” John says, hastily. Talk about a misunderstanding! “No. I’m not asking … No. I’m just saying, it’s …all fine.”

Sherlock looks away. Looks back. “Good,” he says stiffly. “Thank you.”

Which, of course, makes John feels like an absolute tit. He should have handled it better - and he’s no clearer about which way Sherlock swings that he was before. Still, at least now he knows for sure that Sherlock’s not interested in him. Which is good. Great. A relief, in fact, because if they’re going to live together, it would be horribly difficult if he were. 

John’s about to broach the subject of 221B and the rent, when Sherlock suddenly sits up straighter, his eyes glitteringly alert.

“Look across the street,” he says with barely suppressed excitement. “Taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever! Is it clever? Why is it clever?”

And just like that, John’s system is pumping adrenalin again, his embarrassment swept clean away by the prospect of pursuing a killer. 

“That’s him?” he asks, twisting round in his seat to catch a glimpse.

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock says.

“Why?” John shoots back. “You’re staring.”

“We can’t both stare.”

Sherlock gets to his feet. Snatches up his coat and scarf, and makes a dash for the door.

John runs after him.  
 

________________

 Mycroft finishes the day’s report and sends it off with a warm glow of satisfaction. Not only has provided Management with a detailed analysis of the in-fighting between certain members of Her Majesty’s Cabinet and offered a constellation of possible outcomes to the Korean elections later in the year, he’s also been able to confirm that Sherlock is once again fully on mission.

He only hopes it's true.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock has to admit that he's impressed: for someone with an injured shoulder and a psychosomatic limp, John Watson runs and jumps incredibly well - and the more orders he’s given, the more he’s pushed to forget his disabilities, the more vigorous he becomes. He responds well to pressure, flourishes under direction, and gives himself wholly to the task at hand.

By the time Sherlock ushers him back through 221B’s front door, he can’t wait to start experimenting on him. Draping his coat over the bannister, he watches John lean back, panting, against the hallway wall. He looks soft, vulnerable and unsuspecting. Much as the little Aardan did before Sherlock sent a few volts through it. The comparison is thrilling, and Sherlock moves quickly to flop against the wall beside John, in what he hopes is a friendly and Earthian manner.

“Okay. That was ridiculous,” John chuckles. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan." 

John laughs, a strangely undignified and unselfconscious sound - and one which, Sherlock realizes, his pulse quickening, means John's beginning to trust him. He’s never had a test subject who trusted him before. He’s always relied on shackles and hypnotics, on paralytics and fear. But this Earthian - John - is on the brink of putting himself in Sherlock's hands willingly. Sherlock's almost taken aback: John's quite bright by Earthian standards. How can he be so gullible?

“Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?” John asks, when he’s caught his breath.

The question is unimportant; Sherlock waves it away. “They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot, anyway.”

“So what were we doing there?” John asks, and that’s interesting, because although he’s happy to take orders, he wants to understand them too. He’s not quite the meek little follower Sherlock first thought - and that makes him perfect.

“Oh, just passing the time,” Sherlock says airily. “And proving a point.”

“What point?”

”You,” Sherlock says, his heart beating faster with anticipation. This is the best bit. The reveal. When he’s finally able to show off how much quicker he is than those around him, how much more he understands. He turns towards 221A and shouts.

“Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs.”

“Says who?” John asks, but the note of challenge in his voice is playful, not defiant.

Sherlock smiles at him. “Says the man at the door.”  
 

________________

   
An hour ago, John was having fun. That frenetic chase through Westminster with Sherlock was the best thing that's happened to him in months. He _loved_ all that plunging into tight, dark alleyways and leaping recklessly from roof to roof, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He knew it was dangerous, that at any moment he might fall off and break something, or maybe even die - and yet he'd never felt so alive.

But now there’s _this_.

The taxi John’s riding in is moving far too slowly for comfort and a grim sense of foreboding gnaws at his gut. Sherlock’s an idiot. He's going to get himself killed.

John tries Lestrade’s number again. The Detective Inspector is proving incredibly hard to reach. People keep saying John will need to make an appointment, but there’s no time. At the end of his tether, phone clamped to his ear, John decides to get serious. 

“I need to speak to Inspector Lestrade _now_ ," he barks, in his best captain's voice. "It’s an emergency.” 

All he gets in response is a soothing platitude that does nothing for his blood pressure, along with a vague promise they’ll try Lestrade’s phone again. Meanwhile, the cab glides on on through the night - past Kensington Gardens, through Belgravia and down New King’s Road - still at a stupidly leisurely pace. John checks the speedometer and is amazed to find they’re actually breaking the limit. They're crossing Putney Bridge when Lestrade finally picks up.

“This is John Watson,” John tells him. “Sherlock's flat-mate-”

Lestrade groans. “Oh, God. What’s he done now?”

“He’s in trouble.” John checks the laptop app again. The SIM from Jennifer Wilson’s phone is still transmitting from the same place. “He’s in Wimbledon. With the killer.”

Lestrade gives another groan. “He’s gone off on his own again? Bloody hell. I told him-”

“I know you did,” John says. “And I’m sure he’ll admit you were right. If he survives. But right now, you need to get someone to Roland Kerr Further Education College. It’s where Jennifer Wilson’s phone is.”

There’s a pause during which John’s sure he hears the sound of tooth-grinding, then Lestrade comes back, decisive. 

“Right. We’re on our way. Thanks, Mr-”

“Watson,” John supplies. “John Watson.” He’s used to people not remembering him. They rarely even notice him unless they need something. He supposes that’s why he finds the way Sherlock sees right into him as flattering as it is disturbing.

 

At last, the taxi draws up outside a large, Georgian building. John fumbles in his wallet for the fare, pulls out two twenties and a tenner and presses the lot into the driver’s waiting hand. Not waiting for his change, he hits the pavement running.

Roland Kerr college is a warren of identical corridors - arched ceilings, oak-panelled walls, teaching rooms on either side. John races down them, throwing open doors and calling Sherlock’s name, but there’s no answer.

He tears up a flight of stairs into a second hallway. More doors, more yelling, but still no reply. John realizes he’s afraid. Sherlock is weird and unsettling, and John’s not even sure he likes him, but he's not about to let some psycho kill him.

He throws open another heavy door. Its hinges protest the rough treatment with a drawn-out metallic groan but, as the sound echoes away in the empty space, John sees him. Sherlock. Not in this room, not even in this building, but through two sets of windows and two metres of open space.

There’s someone with him. The two of them are facing one another, and as John watches, Sherlock lifts something up to the light. Held between his thumb and forefinger, it’s small - too small for John to see properly from this distance - but he knows what it is: a pill. His heart feels as though it will explode from his chest. He’s already breathless from running. There’s no way he’ll reach Sherlock in time-

The sound of his gun firing has never been louder. John's deafened by the force of it, as the glass in both windows shatters and the man with Sherlock drops out of sight.

Ears still ringing, John sets off again at a run.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft has never known such peace. The throne room is bathed in divine light. The marble floor gleams, and the gilt window frames glow. Somewhere a choir is singing - impossibly beautiful threads of melody and harmonics, intertwining and ascending. In front of Mycroft, Raphael stands smiling, proffering the golden orb and sceptre - but as Mycroft steps forward to receive his Dominion's regalia, a fly swoops in from nowhere and buzzes noisily about his head. Heaven doesn’t have flies. This is a mistake - and one for which Mycroft will surely be blamed. But no matter how violently he tries to bat the insect away, it simply keeps on buzzing. Louder. And louder. And -

All of a sudden, Mycroft’s awake, angry and disappointed. He snatches up his ringing phone with a snarl.

“What?”

“Evening, Mycroft." It's Lestrade. He sounds pleased with himself. "Thought I’d better let you know your brother’s safe.”

“Safe?” Unease pricks its way up Mycroft’s spine. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Ah …” At the other end of the phone, Lestrade hesitates. “Well, the thing is, he went after a killer. By himself. But it’s all right. He’s safe. And the killer’s dead … so everything’s under control.”

"Is it?” Mycroft demands. “My brother - an _Angel_ \- has been stupid enough to involve himself in a violent death in direct contravention of the Sixth Commandment, and you think everything's 'under control'?”

Lestrade clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to.”

“He never does, Gregory.” Mycroft reaches for a cigarette and lights it. The gap between his dream and reality has just widened again - and if he can’t secure promotion, he’ll never be able to keep Sherlock safe. “Where is he now?”

“Wimbledon. Roland Kerr Further Education-”

“I suppose you want me to come and collect him?” Wearily, Mycroft begins looking for his clothes.

“No need for that,” Lestrade assures him, cheerfully. “John Watson's here. I’m sure he’ll look after him for you.”

Mycroft swallows a profanity. The situation is worse than he feared. First the killing, now this. He grinds out his cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray beside the bed.

“I think not, Lestrade. Don’t let them leave. I’m on my way.”  
 

________________

   
‘Moriarty’. Even the name is exciting, and Sherlock mouths it softly to himself.

He’s sitting, relatively patiently, on the back steps of an ambulance, allowing a couple of paramedics to carry out their checks, and thinking. Before the police arrived, he managed to take a look at the cabbie-cum-Nephilim-slayer’s mobile, and it made for interesting reading. Amongst the stored messages were two texts from a withheld number, both signed off with an ‘M’. The first outlined the principles of the cabbie’s game - two bottles, two pills, the invitation to choose - but the second had the tone of a reply. It explained that, thanks to his 'inferior physiology', the cabbie would suffer no harm if he lost the game and was obliged to consume one of the pills. The Earthian probably assumed 'inferior physiology' was a reference to his medical condition, but he was wrong. Sherlock’s almost certain what ‘M’ - Moriarty - really meant was that the poisoned pills were tailor-made to attack Angel DNA - fifty percent of a Nephilim’s genetic code. The prospect of being able to prove that, with no more than his Earthian chemistry set back at the flat, makes Sherlock's heart sing.

He’s congratulating himself on an evening well spent and getting ready to leave when Lestrade approaches, looking clueless, as usual.

“So," Sherlock asks. "The shooter - no sign?”

“Cleared off before we got here,” Lestrade says. “But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but-” He shrugs. “-got nothing to go on.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock says, not even trying not to look smug. Dazzling humans is one thing; dazzling former Angels is far more satisfying. He stands and draws himself taller.

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance, from that kind of a weapon? That’s a crack shot you’re looking for. But not just a marksman - a _fighter_.” Enjoying himself, Sherlock rattles on. “His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service-”

All of a sudden, Sherlock spots John Watson standing in between the parked police cars, face and hair painted blue by their lights. The Earthian's hands are clasped behind his back, as so many of Sherlock’s test subjects’ hands have been before him - except no-one’s forced that open pose of surrender on John. He’s chosen it himself.

Sherlock blinks, surprised to feel a rush of heat.

“Nerves of steel ...”

He stops again, because when John’s eyes meet his - innocent at first, then guilty as hell - Sherlock is in no doubt about who fired the shot that saved him, and, as he holds John’s gaze, something strange seems to pass between them. Sherlock has no idea what it is but, leaving Lestrade to his police work, he makes a beeline for John, determined to find out.  
 

________________

   
In the Army, when one squaddie saved another’s life - assuming neither had too many broken bones or was bleeding from anywhere important - it would invariably lead to bear hugs, back-slapping and calling each other a dickhead or a complete and utter knob. Relief on that scale can only be properly expressed through physical contact, the emotion of the moment downplayed by insults. But, as Sherlock walks over, John keeps himself tightly in check. Sherlock’s a genius. If John’s not careful, he’ll see right through him. Realize he’s the one who fired the gun. Which is why John’s heart is fluttering madly about his chest.

“Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything,” he blurts out when Sherlock comes to a halt in front of him, and the fluttering gets stronger. “Two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful.”

He tries to look away, but Sherlock’s eyes won’t let him. 

“Good shot.”

John’s heart stops merely fluttering and decides to leap into his throat instead. 

“Yes. Yes, must have been,” he stammers. “Through the window …”

“Well, you’d know.” Sherlock's voice is soft and unfairly deep. “Are you all right?”

It’s a ridiculous idea, John knows, but it sounds as if Sherlock actually cares and, after the stress of the past few hours, that would be enough to undo him, if he let it. He stiffens his spine, lifts his chin. 

“Yes,” he says, gruffly. “Of course I’m all right.”

“Well, you _have_ just killed a man,” Sherlock murmurs, and although his gaze is searching, it's not critical. It's almost like a medic's, assessing how much damage a patient's suffered and how best to repair it. 

_Oh God_ , John thinks, if only he knew - and he doesn't mean what that Jezail bullet did to his shoulder - but the prospect of Sherlock seeing any of that is too horrifying, so John quickly plasters on a smile. He jokes. Laughs when Sherlock jokes back. Remembers to be blokey and calls Sherlock an idiot to his face.

It makes Sherlock smile. Just a small, slow smile - but one that's utterly dazzling.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks, and John’s stomach flips over. He’d forgotten how empty he was.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft’s car draws up outside of Roland Kerr College just as Sherlock and his Earthian are walking away. It's the latter who spots Mycroft first: Sherlock is too busy talking and laughing with the drab little creature to notice his own brother. The two of them are walking along side by side, perfectly in step, and if Mycroft was concerned before, he’s now positively alarmed. According to Lestrade, the identity of the gunman who saved Sherlock’s life is unknown. Unknown to Lestrade, perhaps, but Mycroft knows instantly - and knows that Sherlock knows it, too. It's why, when Sherlock finally decides to acknowledge him, his expression is so very hostile.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demands.

“Always so aggressive,” Mycroft sighs. “Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side? We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer … You know how it always upset Mummy.”

Sherlock's little Earthian frowns. "Wait. ‘Mummy’? Who’s ‘Mummy’?”

To Mycroft’s horror, instead of ignoring the creature, Sherlock actually _tells_ him - before going blithely on to divulge Mycroft’s role in the British government and Earthian politics in general. At this rate, Mycroft wouldn’t be surprised to hear him tell Watson that Mummy and Daddy weren’t English but Angels. By some miracle, Sherlock stops short of that and Mycroft’s relieved, but the situation is still serious. Sherlock usually denies the blood ties between them. Why ever would he reveal them to an Earthian? And to _this_ Earthian, in particular? … With a jolt, Mycroft realizes it’s happening again. And that this time he won’t be able to claim that Sherlock was too young to understand what he was doing. 

Mycroft’s still reeling in horror as Sherlock and John Watson walk away. This calls for extreme vigilance and he turns to his government-issue female person.

“We’d better upgrade their surveillance status,” he tells her. “Grade Three: active.”

Because, if push comes to shove, and Management decide to charge Mycroft with dereliction of duty, he wants incontrovertible proof that he tried. Even so, he knows he’s being horribly weak: if only he could master Detachment, he’d do the right thing and turn Sherlock in immediately himself.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock watches, half-appalled, half-fascinated, as John practically inhales his bowl of Szechuan beef noodles. (Well, they _say_ Szechuan, but the recipe’s been adapted for western European taste-buds. It closer to, though not authentic, Hunan style.) John's eating style is enthusiastic, to say the least - and nothing like the surgical slicing and careful mastication Sherlock witnessed in Angelo’s. He likes this approach better, he decides - it’s more adventurous, more direct, more _John_. And if it's not exactly tidy, well, John has _earned_ the right to eat how he likes: it's not every day someone takes action to save Sherlock's life (albeit completely unnecessarily). He's more used to people wishing they could kill him.

He takes a bite of the egg-fried rice he ordered for form's sake. It tastes surprisingly okay.

The restaurant is almost empty, its only other customers a small group of jet-lagged tourists still operating on New York time (accents, teeth), and a newly engaged couple (she keeps looking at the ring), too wrapped up in each other to notice how late it is. Sherlock gives a little huff of contempt. 

“What?” John asks, licking the grease from his lips. (Discreetly.) (Pointed tongue, darting licks.)

Sherlock indicates the young couple with a sideways glance.

“Sentiment. Even worse news for brain-work than a smoking ban.”

“Shut up,” John laughs. “It’s romantic.”

They both look over, just as the young man touches his forehead to the woman’s, prompting her to lean in and rub the tips of their noses together. (Inuit ancestry?) (Itch she can’t reach since he’s also seized both her hands?)

“You think making a life-long commitment, based on nothing more than _feeling_ , is 'romantic'?”

On his second beer now, John leans back in his chair and grins. "Yes."

He has a fascinating face: a small, neat mouth that stretches far wider than it should when he smiles, but his eyes remain large and wide. He’s nearly forty years old yet, at times, looks like a child. He’s seen so much, experienced war and horror, but has somehow retained an innocent core. Yet again, Sherlock can’t help congratulating himself on his own brilliance in choosing him.

The waiter arrives with their bill on a little blue and white saucer. It's accompanied by two fortune cookies, in red and gold foil.

John unwraps one and cracks the brittle pastry open. 

“Go on, then,” he challenges, popping the broken pieces into his mouth and chewing. “You said you could predict the fortune cookies.”

“And you didn’t believe me.”

John folds his arms. “Then prove me wrong.”

Sherlock adopts a penetrating gaze, and is delighted to see John’s face still. (He’s doing his best to give nothing away.)

“It says,” Sherlock declares, after a theatrically long and thoughtful pause (this is _fun_ ), “you’re going to meet a tall, dark stranger.”

John’s eyes widen.

Sherlock suppresses a smile. “Was I right?”

John holds the little scroll of paper out.

“How did you do that?” he asks.

Sherlock smiles. “Probabilities, John. _Science_. I happen to know that this restaurant favours the Mystic East fortune cookie brand. Cheap. They only have four mottos.‘All your sorrows will vanish’ or ‘You will always be successful in your professional career’ in the red wrappers. ‘Great works are performed not by strength, but by perseverance’ or ‘You will meet a tall, dark stranger’ in the gold. You chose gold. I had a fifty percent chance of being right.”

“And a fifty percent chance of being wrong,” John points out. He finishes his beer and sets the empty glass back down on the table. “Mind you, _you’re_ tall, and dark - and stranger than anyone I’ve ever met. That cookie knew something.”

Sherlock gives a soft snort of amusement. 

“Yep,” John goes on, his words slightly slurred. “That was one smart cookie. Shame I ate it. Probably had a degree in astrology or something. Saw that us meeting was written in the stars. What d’you think?”

The last thing Sherlock wants to talk about is the stars. The subject’s too close to home. _Literally_.

“No idea,” he says, tersely. “I don’t know anything about astronomy.”

“Yeah, you do.”

”I’m really don’t.” 

“Oh, come on. You've got to know something. The solar system! It’s not rocket science.”

“Why would I? It’s not important.” Sherlock just hopes John believes that.

For a couple of moments, John stares at him, incredulous. Then he dissolves into a fit of giggles.

“See? I told you you were stranger than anyone I’ve ever met - there’s your proof!”

Relieved, Sherlock gives him an indulgent smile.

“That beer seems to have gone to your head,” he says, placing a handful of notes down on the table next to the bill. “Come on, John Watson. I think it’s time I took you home.”


	4. A Face from the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock moves on to read his own messages - and sees a name that makes his stomach flip over: Sebastian Wilkes. He has a message from _Sebastian_. He closes his eyes. Breathes. What little there was - all of it one-sided - happened a long time ago. These days, he has himself under perfect control._
> 
> _To prove it, he’s going to open Wilkes’ message and feel _nothing_._
> 
> _Even so, when the message opens, his pulse quickens. But there’s nothing, he tells himself unusual in that: it always happens in response to a puzzle - and Wilkes’ presence in London is certainly that. Is it purely coincidental he’s making contact now, after the Nephilim murders - or is there some kind of link? If there _is_ , what kind of a link is it?_

John climbs the stairs to the little attic room at the top of the house and pauses in the doorway to breathe in the scent of it - old wood, and furniture polish. This is his room now. It’s on the small side, yeah, but it’s neat and unfussy - just how he likes things. Sherlock’s room is probably vast and Bohemian - wild flounces here, velvet drapes there … and, very possibly, a crocodile under the bed. The thought makes John giggle. He closes the door behind him and makes his way unsteadily over to the bed. Two bottles of beer at the Chinese was probably a mistake.

The bed has a good, firm mattress, and John bounces on it a little as he toes off his shoes, appreciating the springs. The bedlinen is clean and crisp, the duvet thick and fluffy and he can’t wait to get under it. He peels off his socks, strips off his clothes and snuggles down. In mere seconds, he’s asleep ...

_… There’s a body on the floor. The body of a woman - well-dressed and attractive. John drops to his knees beside it. “I was hoping you’d go deeper,” a voice above him murmurs. He does his best to ignore it. His heart aches. His chest is tight. This woman was too young to die, too lovely - but as he reaches out to examine the body, it moves, and rolls over seductively onto its back. Its blue-green eyes are filled with stars and John’s heart skips a beat. He’s never seen anything like it. It’s amazing. Extraordinary._

_“D’you know you do that out loud?” the body asks, full lips curving into a smile, and suddenly they’re kissing, bodies blurring as the space between is them lost. This shouldn’t be happening, John thinks, on the edge of panic. He’s falling, failing, out of control. He thought he’d buried this years ago. Mum would be horrified: he’s not supposed to turn out like Dad. He becomes nauseous and his head starts to spin. He needs something to hold onto - something solid, something safe. He snatches frantically in the darkness, and his fingers find hair - soft, loose curls of it. Gripping them tightly, he hangs on for dear life._

_“I’m to take you home,” a new voice says, gently amused, and the spinning slows. John looks down at his hands. The hair wound around them isn’t curly, after all. It’s long, and sleek, and very, very straight. A woman’s hair. John feels his whole body relax._

_“Any point in asking where I’m going?” he asks, as she draws him away from the darkness and into the light._

_She laughs. "None at all."_

John wakes up hard. And that’s something that hasn’t happened since the day he was shot. He knows it’s largely due to nitrous oxide release resulting in blood vessel dilation but, in his book, an erection is an erection, and a promising sign. He’s getting back to normal, at long bloody last. He throws the sheet back, snatches up his dressing gown and, humming a little tune, pads downstairs barefoot for a nice, long shower.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft is having an absolutely hellish morning. Infuriated by the Prime Minister’s stance on covert surveillance, the Home Secretary has dug her heels in and refused to sign off on the PM's proposed extensions to the code of practice - extensions Mycroft _needs_ if he’s to keep tabs on the Korean Ambassador. He’d have been able to take all this in his stride, had Raphael had the good grace to acknowledge the efforts he’s been making to keep Sherlock in line, but there’s been no word from On High and it’s been hours. Mycroft checks his watch again and makes up his mind. If Raphael won’t communicate, then he’ll have to do it for him. He rattles off a quick message and sends it off through the aether.

Raphael’s response is immediate: a tersely worded, pre-prepared text advising him that Management considers Sherlock’s full cooperation and obedience non-negotiable and that if Mycroft is unable to ensure both, Measures Will Be Taken.

Snapping his computer shut with a barely contained curse, Mycroft pages his secretary and instructs her to bring up coffee and cake. Lots of cake. Without it, he’s not sure he’ll get through the day.

However, he’s barely has time to take his first bite of a thick slice of Devil’s Food Cake, when his mobile buzzes. He glares at it. He needs this little indulgence, and he doesn’t appreciate being wrenched away from it, especially not by a phone call from Sherlock. On the other hand, there’s no telling what trouble Sherlock may have got himself into, and a stitch in time may well save nine.

Swallowing hastily, he picks up. “Sherlock. What is it?”

There’s a pause. Then, “Mycroft - are you eating cake?”

“Absolutely not!” Mycroft replies, with just the right amount of indignation to be convincing. “An apple, in fact.” But a crumb has caught his throat and he can’t help coughing. He hears Sherlock laugh.

“I knew it. If you hadn’t mentioned apples, I might have believed you. You hate apples.”

Mycroft holds the phone away from his ear so that he can narrow his eyes at it for a second. “We _all_ hate apples, remember?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replies impatiently. “Garden. Tree. Snake. Fall. Yadda-yadda-yadda. We don’t need to go through all that again.”

Sadly, Mycroft fears they will, and very soon. He takes a sip of coffee and shudders at the bitter taste.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Your help. I’ve developed a hypothesis I want to test - but I need more data.”

“And what does this hypothesis involve?” Mycroft asks warily, trying not to get his hopes up. He’d give anything to have Sherlock fully on mission, but it seems too good to be true.

“Love.”

Mycroft very nearly splutters.

“ _Love_?”

“Think, Mycroft. Attachment is the cause of all kinds of idiocy. Which is why we Angels avoid it. Well, why some of us do.”

Mycroft flinches at the barb.

“And you need more data? What kind? If you were to be more-”

“John. John Watson. I worked it out from him. He killed a man. To save my life.”

Mycroft grips his phone tighter, willing his suddenly thumping heart to slow down.

“Are you saying the Earthian … that John Watson _loves_ you? Oh, Sherlock - what have you done?”

At the other end of the phone, Sherlock gives a derisive snort.

“I haven’t _done_ anything. And don’t be ridiculous - he hardly knows me. But he does seem to like me. Think! If he would kill to protect me - a near-stranger he likes - what might he do if a person he _loved_ were in danger?”

“Sherlock Holmes, I absolutely forbid it. You are not-”

“I need a woman.”

Mycroft stares at his phone.

“You need a … _what_?” he asks, feeling unutterably foolish. He’s usually three steps ahead of Sherlock, and this reversal of the natural order of things is very unpleasant. “Why would you want a woman?”

“Not for me. Do try to keep up, Mycroft. I need a woman for John. I know what Attachment does to superior minds - it makes them insufferably interfering, in case you were wondering - but I want to test its effect on an inferior one. You must know someone who knows someone. Isn’t that what you do?”

Reeling with both shock and relief, all Mycroft can do is nod. Then he realizes Sherlock can’t see him.

“Yes,” he says, firmly, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Of course. I’ll … see to it immediately.”  
 

________________

   
Although the experiment proper can’t begin until Mycroft is able to supply a suitable Earthian female, there are plenty of things Sherlock can work on in the meantime. First on his list is establishing John’s emotional baseline and noting how it alters in response to a range of stimuli.

He positions himself casually in a chair by the fire and pretends to read a book.

John appears a few minutes later. His cheeks, still flushed from his shower, turn a slightly deeper pink when his eyes meet Sherlock’s, and he turns away quickly to occupy himself with making coffee and toast. Sherlock waits until he’s settled down to eat breakfast at the table before going into the kitchen to join him.

“Shower hot enough for you?” he asks, pleasantly. This morning was the first time John used it; on the face of it, the question is a perfectly reasonable one.

“Uh. Yeah. Fine.”

John takes a bite of his toast, but he struggles to get it down.

Sherlock takes the seat opposite John and helps himself to some of his coffee.

“D’you know you were in there fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds?”

John's gulp is audible. "You were timing me?”

“I notice things. All sorts of things. Hazard of the job.”

“Ah.” John nods. Clears his throat. “Yeah. I suppose it would be. I, uh, hope I didn’t wake you. I was afraid I might. I mean, this place has got a funny layout, hasn’t it? The bathroom, right next to yours.”

Sherlock leans forward and raises an eyebrow.

“Problem? I thought you seemed completely at ease with the arrangement. You were certainly very … thorough.”

Predictably, John almost chokes.

“Uh … Well, you know what they say,” he manages, in a slightly strangled voice. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

“ ‘They’ say that, do ‘they’?” Sherlock takes a slow sip of coffee. “They also say ‘the Devil makes work for idle hands’.”

This time, John comes close to dropping his mug and Sherlock is delighted. (The Earthian is embarrassed.) (He feels _guilty_ about masturbating - despite it being a perfectly natural thing for a healthy animal in want of a mate to engage in.) (This is very promising! Shame indicates a fundamental misalignment between what an individual thinks they should be and how they perceive themself. And that misalignment is where all the truly interesting information lies if you’re interested in emotional manipulation.) (It certainly works on Mycroft.)

Sherlock allows John to squirm for a few moments before throwing him a lifeline.

“Sorry. Was that rude? I simply meant that, being unemployed, you’re not on a schedule. Able to take your time.”

John smiles uncertainly but he’s far from relaxed. A sudden metallic clatter downstairs, and the soft whoosh of falling paper make him leap up from his chair with an expression of blissful relief.

“Aha!” he cries, as though he were expecting mail. “The post!”

A couple of minutes later, he returns, his composure restored, and carrying a pale blue envelope.

“It’s for you,” he says, holding it out.

There’s no stamp on the envelope, and no address; just Sherlock’s name, hand-written in gold ink. He slits it open with John’s butter knife and takes out the letter. It’s only when John asks gently, “Sherlock? Are you all right?” that he realizes he must have been staring at it in silence for some time.

“What? Yes. Fine!” he snaps - so sharply that John recoils and, for a long moment, neither of them speaks.

John’s brow furrows.

“Right. Good,” he says, at last. “I thought it might be bad news.”

It is bad news. The worst, in Sherlock’s book. He reads the letter again, clenching his teeth in frustration. Management wanted him on this mission. They know how he works. If they hadn’t wanted someone with with extraordinary powers of observation and a passion for puzzle-solving, they shouldn’t have ordered him to come.

“It’s a case,” he tells John eventually, because that’s what Management have decided to dress it up as. “Work.”

John’s face lights up. “Something good?”

Sherlock waves the letter in his face. He’s so angry with it, he can’t help himself. Management haven’t even done him the courtesy of making the case an interesting one.

“Some nonsense about a diamond. The 'Jaria Diamond'. It’s gone missing, apparently, and they expect me to drop everything and find it.”

People in real distress don’t write letters like this. They don’t make demands on the person they turn to for help. They beg and wheedle and promise. Sherlock’s been on Earth long enough to know that. No, this is a coded message - one letting him know that he’s being watched and disapproved of.

John cocks his head to one side. “Drop everything? You’ve mean you've got other cases? Because - if you like … I mean, if there’s anything I can do-”

“Shopping,” Sherlock says quickly. He needs words with Mycroft. Needs to tell his brother exactly what he thinks of the way he’s gone crawling to Management to betray him. But he can’t do that with John in the house: if John gets the faintest inkling that Sherlock isn’t quite what he claims to be, he’ll be worthless as a test subject, not to mention potentially dangerous.

“We need tea. And milk. And- “ Sherlock waves his hands wildly. “-everything!”

John’s brows pull together.

“Everything?” His tone implies Sherlock’s being ridiculous. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know!” Sherlock cries, getting up and starting to pace. “What do people normally need? That’s what _we_ need. Now, damn it!”

He screws the letter into a tight ball, stalks into the living room and throws it on the fire, where it spasms helplessly for a second, then bursts into flame.

Still looking at him as if he thinks he’s insane, John raises both hands and makes little calming gestures.

“All right, all right. Don’t get yourself worked up. I’m going.”

But not fast enough for Sherlock’s liking.

“Worked up?” he says, adopting unfair tactics and fixing John with a penetrating look. “ _I_ have never got _myself_ worked up in my life.”

It works like a charm.  
 

________________

   
The bloke in the queue behind John at the supermarket is fast losing patience. His heavy sighs and irritated grunts are a dead giveaway. Not that John blames him - he’s losing patience himself. He doesn’t appreciate being made to look like an idiot by anyone, let alone a bloody machine.

“Card not authorized,” the till chirps again. “Please use an alternative method of payment.”

With the bloke behind openly swearing now, John gives up trying to pay by card and gropes around in his back pocket for cash instead - and finds none.

That’s it. John’s has about as much humiliation as he can take for one morning.

“Right - keep it,” he snaps at the machine, and stabs a finger in the direction of the carrier bag he’s been filling. “Keep that.”

Acutely aware of the disgruntled noises the rest of the queue are making, he strides away with as much dignity as he can muster, and makes straight for the exit.

But even that’s not an escape, because now he’s going to have to go back to the flat empty-handed and … bugger. Oh God, he wishes his mind had come up with a different way of phrasing his frustration because now he’s thinking about Sherlock again, and all that bloody innuendo over breakfast.

John’s a doctor. He knows there’s nothing wrong with a quick wank - he’s told dozens of guilty young squaddies that very thing - and yet … doing it himself? At his age? It smacks of desperation. It’s not as if he’s a spotty, inexperienced adolescent any more. He ought to have better self-control. And, dear god, whatever possessed him to do it in the shower, with Sherlock on the other side of that very thin door? The idea that Sherlock might have been listening, or worse still, watching through those bloody glass panels - and why the hell are there glass panels anyway? - sends the same jolt of fear-laden excitement through John now as it did then, and his toes curl from a double dose of shame. Because picturing Anthea or whatever her name was wasn’t doing it for him. It was only when he started imagining Sherlock walking in on him that he felt anything like the arousal he was striving for; and only when he imagined Sherlock staying to watch him finish that his system finally kicked properly into gear.

John supposes it’s time he stopped kidding himself. He knows what it means - and it’s not that he’s been unconsciously harbouring exhibitionist tendencies.

He needs to get a girlfriend. Soon. Before he does something that would make Mum spin in her grave.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft’s inbox has rarely been so thoroughly depressing. The first Urgent missive he opens is from Sherlock and it’s typically angry.

_You asked me to come on this mission. I came. But now I’m here, I’ll do my work my way. Any orders you - or Management - give me will be ignored. So, do yourself a favour and LEAVE. ME. ALONE._

Mycroft rereads it with an impending sense of doom. Sherlock is running headlong into trouble and, if Mycroft’s not careful, he’ll get dragged down with him - and yet the notion of abandoning Sherlock to his fate is too painful to contemplate.

Mycroft sighs. Perhaps he’ll be able spin Sherlock’s attitude as radiation-induced cognitive decline caused by too many solar particles penetrating Earth’s precariously thin atmosphere.

The second message in his inbox crushes that idea instantly.

 _Your brother,_ it reads. _Your problem. Don’t make it Ours._

Mycroft drops his head into his hands. It may still be morning, and this afternoon’s official engagements may be legion, but right now he needs a drink. A large one.  
 

________________

   
In 221B, all is quiet.

Too quiet.

Sherlock moves stealthily along the short corridor between his room and the kitchen, every sense on high alert.

The kitchen is empty, the drip from cold water tap and the low hum of the fridge the only sounds. Sherlock pauses, eyeing the sliding doors. They’re closed - and that’s definitely Not Good: they were open when John left and Sherlock certainly hasn’t shut them since. He walks purposefully over and throws them open, ready.

 _Almost ready_ , he quickly amends, when the curved blade of a sabre slices down through the air towards his right shoulder with a dangerous whoosh. He dodges it by reflex, ducks and deals his assailant a solid punch to the ribs. The blow makes the intruder reel, but he goes with it, whirling around, the tassels along the trailing end of his scarf nearly catching Sherlock in the eye. The sword is right behind it, and it’s only by twisting violently to one side that Sherlock avoids losing an ear. His assailant turns, tries again, but this time Sherlock snatches at the coarse cotton sleeve of his jacket, and pulls him off balance just in time to avoid being struck by his vicious blade. It crashes down onto one of the table lamps instead, slices the shade in half and shatters the base.

Trampling ceramic shards underfoot, Sherlock retreats into the kitchen. He needs a weapon - and quickly - but his attacker comes after him fast. The table between them provides a bit of cover and Sherlock knows there’s a carving knife in the drawer. He tries to yank it open, but it’s jammed, and in those few split-seconds, his attacker is on him again. Sherlock feints to the left, runs to the right, and backs out into the living room, eyes fixed on the blade.

Changing tactics, the swordsman raises his weapon above his head and brings it down hard. Sherlock lunges to one side - arms back, out of harm’s way - then pivots away as his would-be killer suddenly spins around and brings the blade up fast towards his throat. The settee is right behind Sherlock. It’s his only refuge. He lets himself fall - and, as the bastard make another lunge towards him, he brings both feet up and kicks him hard in the stomach, sending him staggering backwards across the room. There’s just enough time for Sherlock to get back to his feet, before the maniac is on him again, forcing him back into the kitchen. The next thing he knows, he’s been thrown down onto his back on the table, the blade angled across his throat. He snaps up a hand, seizes his attacker’s wrist and struggles for control. His attacker’s using both hands on the sword now, trying to force the sharp edge of the blade down into Sherlock's throat. Sherlock bucks under him, knees him in the kidneys. Knees him in the testicles too, and for a moment, Sherlock’s free as his attacker stumbles back and away.

But he’s tough. Inhumanly tough. He drags in a breath, utters a guttural cry and he’s on the attack again. In the end, it’s only by playing dirty that Sherlock survives. He distracts him by pointing at the mirror in fake alarm, then delivers an uppercut to the intruder's lower jaw that knocks him out cold.

Breathing heavily, Sherlock straightens his jacket. It’s been some time since he participated in physical combat and then only for training purposes. He takes a moment to catalogue his body’s reactions. (Increased heart-rate, faster respiration. A pleasant buzz from adenosine triphosphate release. Warmth.) He feels good - very good. If Earthians’ physiology works in anything like the same way, they probably derive some kind of sensual pleasure from fighting - and they’re unevolved enough to revel in it without considering the consequences beforehand. The physical pleasure of it could be another factor driving them towards war and violence. Sherlock makes a note to test the theory on John as soon as practicable.

Meanwhile, he needs to know the identity of his attacker. Unconscious now, he’s slithered off the sofa onto the floor. Sherlock bends over the sprawled body and carefully unwinds the swathes of wool and flax from around its face. Could this be an Ophanim, sent to ensure Sherlock grasps the seriousness of Management's coded message? Unlikely. Ophanim are bound by Heaven's rules and Thou Shalt Not Kill is right up there amongst the top ten. This creature definitely intended to kill. So what is it? Another of the Nephilim-killer's minions or the killer himself? Could _this_ be Moriarty?

The face Sherlock uncovers is well-shaped, the jawbone strong. The neck and shoulder muscles are well developed and sharply defined. Sherlock runs an exploratory hand down the arms and legs. The muscle tone is excellent, much better than the Earthian norm and, as Sherlock picks up the hands and turns them over, his pulse gathers pace again. The left hand is more calloused, the tendons thicker … Sherlock replays the fight in his head, remembering the strength and control behind the creature's left-handed hacks and thrusts.

His assailant is a Nephilim.

It stirs under his touch, the Angelic portion of its genetic heritage dragging it up from the fog of unconsciousness far more swiftly than a fully human brain ever could.

“Who are you?” Sherlock demands as its eyes start to focus. “Who sent you? Why did you attack me?”

It stares back at him, fear and revulsion twisting its otherwise handsome face.

Sherlock shakes it. “Tell me!” he growls.

“Murderer!” it hisses, and before he can stop it, it’s pulled the necklace around its throat up to its mouth, and bitten off a capsule from the chain.

In just two seconds, it’s dead.  
 

________________

   
Back at the supermarket again, the self-service till is swift and efficient. John pushes Sherlock’s card into the slot and hopes to God he’s remembered his PIN.

Apparently, he has because the machine flashes PIN approved. Please take your card, and John lets out a long sigh of relief. Say what you like about the Army - it never put him through trials like this.

Carefully, he puts Sherlock’s card into his inside pocket. It’s bad enough having had to use it; he doesn’t want to lose the thing. God knows what Mum would make of him living off another bloke. Then again, she could hardly give him a harder time about it that he’s already giving himself. He’s just bought his groceries with Sherlock’s card. With Sherlock’s _money_. Jesus! How the hell did he end up a kept man?

It has to stop. He needs a job. A girlfriend and a job.  
 

________________

   
Vehicular exhaust fumes aside, Mycroft is finding walking along the north bank of the Thames in the spring sunshine rather pleasant, and he swings his umbrella jauntily. The sky is blue, the leaves of the silver birches above his head fluttering little clouds of lime-green.

Approaching Waterloo Bridge, he finally spots Lestrade hurrying towards him, not quite running, but moving at a pace fast enough to render him breathless by the time they meet. His large, brown eyes are troubled, the lines between his greying brows tight.

“You said it was urgent,” he puffs, coming to a halt.

“I did.” Mycroft looks pointedly at his watch. “Did you have a prior engagement? Something more pressing, perhaps?”

Lestrade clears his throat.

“Just had to, uh, make sure some evidence was in the right place. It’s done now.”

Mycroft sniffs. Lestrade really should learn to prioritize. However, he’s here now and Mycroft flicks a quick glance left, then right: no-one's paying them undue attention.

“Walk with me.”

“All right, but I can’t give you long. Your brother’s just dumped a whole new investigation on me, and my caseload’s diabolical as it is.”

Mycroft nods, sympathetically.

“Sherlock does tend to make life more difficult, doesn’t he? However, with just a little of your help, I should soon be able to get him out of your hair.”

“Yeah?” Lestrade’s pace picks up immediately, and he smiles. “What d’you need me to do?”

Mycroft glances up at the branches overhead.

“Spring,” he muses, watching them sway in the breeze. “I hear the season is considered a lovely time of year in these parts. New life, rising sap - that kind of thing. When a young man’s fancy-”

“You _said_ it was urgent,” Lestrade grumbles, displaying signs of almost Earthian frustration.

The poor fellow has been on Earth too long; Mycroft decides to take pity on him and come to the point.

“There is a health centre off Marylebone Road - correct?”

“Yeah?”

“The head of the practice is a young person of the female persuasion. Sarah Sawyer.”

“No idea. It’s not like _we_ visit GPs, is it?”

Mycroft laughs, enjoying the irony.

“No, indeed. But, in the line of your work-”

“Nope.”

“The point is - one of Ms Sawyer’s underlings is dealing in methoxetamine and diazepam.”

“Christ, that’s all we need,” Lestrade groans. “Another bloody drugs supplier. As if we didn’t have enough already. All right. Give me a name, and I’ll have him tailed.”

“No, Gregory. You misunderstand me.”

Lestrade blinks.“Huh?”

Mycroft reaches into his pocket and extracts a sealed plastic bag. Inside, there are two smaller bags, each containing a large handful of blue and white pills. He passes the lot to Lestrade.

“I think you’ll find Doctor Williams’ fingerprints are all over these.”

“You want me to fit Williams up?” Lestrade asks, and Mycroft can tell from the way he starts worrying at his lower lip that he wants to refuse. He seems to have forgotten that sometimes Angels have to work in mysterious ways.

“We shall, of course, exonerate him at a later date and pay generous compensation, but there are reasons, Gregory,” Mycroft tells him. “Good ones.”

“Such as?”

The Fallen is still wearing a slightly mutinous expression and Mycroft supposes it will be simpler to placate him.

“Suffice it to say that it is imperative my brother’s ‘flat-mate’ be provided with a few distractions.”

Lestrade cocks his head to one side as he processes this information.

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “I get it. Doctor Watson's getting too close to stuff he shouldn’t, eh?”

“Yes,” Mycroft confirms, with a tight smile. “Something like that.”  
 

________________

   
Sherlock had hoped that with Lestrade’s swift removal of the Nephilim’s body to Bart’s lab and Stamford’s expertise for blood and tissue testing, the seething frustration caused by the thing’s suicide might have abated. It hasn’t. If he’d been able to make it talk, he’d be close to solving the Nephilim-killing mystery by now. As it is, he only has more questions.

To distract himself, he decides to concentrate on his experiment on John instead. Happily, John has left his laptop in the living room - an open invitation for Sherlock to poke around in its hard drive, and thus the Earthian’s brain. He takes the machine over to the table and switches it on.

John’s email account makes fascinating reading - a treasure trove of personal data. A quick search using a few basic courtship-related words and phrases ('coffee', 'spare ticket', 'date', 'dinner', 'beautiful', 'hot') turns up scores of hits and, scanning them, Sherlock quickly forms a picture of John as a very active ‘ladies’ man’, with girlfriends from across three continents (an intern on an exchange from Botswana and a phlebotomist from Sydney representing John’s extra-European interests). Going by the datestamps on their emails, several of John’s girlfriends were concurrent; all of them short-term. None lasted longer than a few months. Sherlock’s surprised: from what he’s read, an Earthian with John’s apparent sense of propriety would want to settle down and procreate, not have endless sexual encounters with relative strangers. (This could be a problem. If John finds it so easy to move from female to female, he may not be the falling-in-love type.) And yet, from what Sherlock’s learnt of John, he refuses to believe the Earthian is a stranger to Attachment. His failure to pair-bond before now must be due to circumstance, not inclination: his demanding job, his enrolment in the Army, his injury. Sherlock nods to himself: now John’s back in London - and with Sherlock on the case - he’ll be in love before he knows it!

His concerns eased, Sherlock moves on to his own messages - and sees a name that makes his stomach flip over: Sebastian Wilkes. He has a message from _Sebastian_. He closes his eyes. Breathes. What little there was - all of it one-sided - happened a long time ago. These days, he has himself under perfect control.

To prove it, he’s going to open Wilkes’ message and feel _nothing_.

Even so, when the message opens, his pulse quickens. But there’s nothing, he tells himself unusual in that: it always happens in response to a puzzle - and Wilkes’ presence in London is certainly that. Is it purely coincidental he’s making contact now, after the Nephilim murders - or is there some kind of link? If there _is_ , what kind of a link is it? Sherlock presses his hands together and reads.

_Sherlock-_

_How’re things, buddy? Been a long time since Universal Training. I hear on the grapevine that you’re now a consulting detective. There’s been an ‘incident’ at the bank - something baffling. I’m hoping you can sort it for me. Please call by. Needless to say, I’ll be relying on you discretion._

‘Bank’, Sherlock notes, with a vague sense of disappointment, although it makes perfect sense: Sebastian specialized in finance and audit. He’s probably on Earth to make some Angel’s life a living hell.

With any luck, that Angel will be Mycroft.  
 

________________

   
John hates Shad Sanderson Bank the moment he follows Sherlock in through the revolving doors. Smug face after smug, wealthy face glides past, radiating financial security. The contrast with his own lack of funds is galling, and he cringes yet again at having had to ask Sherlock for a loan. It’s not fair. He bets nobody else in here knows how to save a life.

A polished receptionist leads them down a silvered corridor to an office with the name ‘Sebastian Wilkes’ acid-etched into its glass door. ‘Sebastian’, John thinks bitterly: the name says it all.

If Wilkes’ office had been expressly designed to intimidate John, it couldn’t be doing a better job. There are computers everywhere, displaying incomprehensible tables of numbers, whilst real-time exchange rates flash across a screen on the wall. John pictures his own account, up on a screen in a similar office somewhere in London, and some fat-cat banker keeled over, laughing.

This wretched train of thought is halted by the arrival of an oily-looking bloke in an expensive blue suit. He’s dark-haired, clean-shaven and an inch taller than Sherlock. It's immediately obvious they know one another. Probably went to the same public school. John resigns himself to fading into the background.

Wilkes strides over to clasp Sherlock by the hand.

“How long’s it been since I last clapped eyes on you?” he grins. “Eight years?”

Sherlock’s answer makes John start.

“This is my friend,” he says. “John Watson.”

John flicks a look at him, unsettled. Why is Sherlock pushing him to the fore? Why is Sherlock’s manner so uncharacteristically defensive?

“ ‘Friend’?”

A mocking smile plays about Wilkes’ lips as he casts John a sideways glance.

“ _Colleague_ ,” John clarifies, both for himself, and for Sherlock. He doesn’t like Wilkes, nor what he’s implying.

John reckons Sherlock must feel the same way, because he immediately launches into what seems to be his party trick of reading people’s minds, dissecting Wilkes’ career trajectory and lifestyle. It’s the kind of thing anyone normal would find embarrassing - particularly in front of a stranger - but Wilkes just leans back in his chair and laughs.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says, and turns to John. “We were are uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do.”

“It’s not a trick,” Sherlock mutters, and he sounds … well, to John’s ear, he almost sounds hurt.

“He could look at you and tell you your whole life story,” Wilkes continues. “Put the wind up everybody. We hated him. You’d come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you’d been shagging the previous night.”

John feels the pleasant smile he’s been trying to maintain freeze on his face. He was right: Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing in the shower earlier. Again, John’s belly tightens at the thought - and not in an entirely unpleasant way, God help him.

Fortunately the conversation turns away from sex and shagging, and onto the safer ground of a break-in at the bank.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft adores the Diogenes Club. He’s seated in one of the leather armchairs beside the reading room’s imposing stone fireplace and sipping a post-prandial brandy when one of the servants approaches, an incongruously cheap brown envelope in his white-gloved hands.

Mycroft takes it and the man melts away to wherever it is servants go when not serving. The fire in the grate in pleasantly warm, the only sound in the room that of its other occupant’s gentle snoring. Mycroft open the envelope and reads its contents with a smile.

_Job done. Surgery in question in need of a replacement GP._

Mycroft takes another sip of brandy, and reclines further in his chair. Well done, Inspector Lestrade. All is right with the world.

Sherlock leaves Sebastian’s company in high spirits. He wasn’t humiliated, nor did he feel even the slightest thread of Attachment.

“Two trips around the world this month,” John says, the hint of a challenge in his voice, as they exit the bank. “You didn’t ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him.”

Sherlock hides a smile. For an Earthian, John is surprisingly perceptive - and that combination of intelligence and emotion will make experimenting on him highly productive.

But before that can happen, Sherlock is determined solve Sebastian’s problem - for both personal and professional reasons. Impressing Sebastian will impress Management, and if Sherlock can be seen to do it with complete Detachment, it may even wipe his record clean.

It’s obvious the curious glyphs sprayed on Sir William’s office walls were a warning aimed at the trader called Van Coon - and Van Coon is employed by a business in which Sebastian has taken a special interest. It’s possible that Van Coon and Sebastian are connected. If they are, the question is: How? Van Coon may be a trader, but who - or what - else is he?

Van Coon, it quickly transpires when Sherlock goes to search his flat, is dead. He finds him lying neatly on his king size bed, a bullet hole in his right temple and a convenient pistol at his side. Sherlock circles the body, assessing. It’s strong, and well made, and - under that slight layer of flab - the muscle tone is good. Better than the average Earthian’s. A shiver of excitement raises goosepimples on Sherlock arms. A senior trader with Shad Sanderson, Van Coon was certainly 'high-placed'. In his head, Sherlock rewinds the quick prowl he took around Van Coon's flat after breaking in.

Van Coon was left-handed.

Another Nephilim.

Another _dead_ Nephilim.  
 

________________

   
The Credit House off Cannon Street is a self-consciously modern restaurant with brutalist furniture and bare breeze-block walls, its only concession to decoration a lick of purple emulsion and a few aubergine-coloured pouffes.

Wilkes is at one of the long tables, surrounded by a handful of equally annoying-looking cronies. Corporate men, all in the same uniform. John rolls his eyes. To think people sneer at soldiers for their willingness to fall into line!

As Wilkes and his mates guffaw like school boys, Sherlock walks right up to them and interrupts. It makes John’s heart swell with pride.

“It was a threat,” Sherlock tells Wilkes, ignoring the others. “That’s what the graffiti meant.”

Wilkes regards him with distaste, eyes slithering to his well-heeled friends in apology.

“I’m kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?”

His dismissal of Sherlock, as though he were some kind of lowly tradesman, makes John clench his jaw, but Sherlock clearly has no time for such tact.

He fixes Wilkes with an unsmiling look.

“I don’t think this can wait,” he says, in a dangerous, sing-song voice. “Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was killed.”

He’s relishing this, John can tell - and he can’t find it in his heart to disapprove: the look of shocked embarrassment on Wilkes’ face is far too satisfying.

“Sorry to interfere with everyone’s digestion,” Sherlock continues, “Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o’clock at Scotland Yard suit?”

A vicious smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when Wilkes runs a finger around the inside of his shirt collar.

John’s not as quick-witted as Sherlock, nor - he’s sure - does he see as much, but even he can tell this is comeback of some kind, and not just for Wilkes lording it over him this morning, either. It's personal, about something that hurts, so when Wilkes rises from his seat and leads Sherlock to the privacy of the Gents for a private conversation, John is right behind Sherlock, watching his back.

As soon as the heavy door swings shut behind them, Wilkes walks over to the basin and washes his hands, Pontius Pilate-like. The comparison surprises John. Mum took her religion very seriously, but he stopped believing years ago.

“Harrow,” Wilkes says of Van Coon, like they’re supposed to be impressed. “Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while. Lost five mill in a single morning. Made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had.”

“Who’d wanna kill him?” John asks, because Sherlock’s gone strangely quiet now it's just the three of them.

Scrutinizing his reflection in the mirror, Wilkes stands taller and buttons his jacket. “We all make enemies.”

“You don’t all end up with a bullet through your temple,” John snaps back, because - for the life of him - he can’t imagine why. In Afghanistan, far worse happened to far better men.

Wilkes, with that effortless cool of the upper classes, refuses to notice the anger in John’s voice.

“Not usually,” he agrees, then his phone beeps, giving him something far more important to do than entertain the lower orders. “ ’Scuse me.”

He takes out his phone and studies the screen.

“It’s my Chairman. The police have been onto him. Apparently they’re telling him it was a suicide.”

This finally shakes Sherlock out of his melancholy silence.

“Well, they’ve got it wrong, Sebastian,” he says, earnestly. “He was murdered.”

John’s struck by Sherlock’s use of Wilkes’ Christian name: it seems out of character, somehow.

“Well, I’m afraid they don’t see it like that,” Wilkes replies, and gives an almost imperceptible shrug - the gesture of a man who knows his place and expects you to know yours.

“Seb …” Sherlock tries, a world of feeling in his voice, that makes John despise Wilkes even more fervently when it fails to move him.

The posh git just cuts Sherlock off, saying, “And neither does my boss.” He raises his chin, and pulls rank. “I hired you to do a job. Don’t get side-tracked.”

And with that, he simply walks away, leaving the door to bang shut emphatically behind him.

John flicks a glance at Sherlock; he’s gone very quiet again - wistful, even - and, bugger it, there’s something so childlike and vulnerable in his expression that John has to try to cheer him up.

“I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards,” he says dryly, because he’s sure it’s something that will make Sherlock smile, but it doesn’t. He just looks sad, and John is startled by how much he wants to put a comforting arm around him.

“Come on,” he says, instead. “Let’s get out of here and go home.”  
 

________________

   
In the unforgiving morning light, 221B is every bit as squalid as Mycroft expected - its inherent shabbiness rendered far worse by Sherlock’s chaotic presence. One might have imagined living cheek-by-jowl with another tenant, particularly an Earthian one, would rein in his constant tinkering, but one look around the kitchen proves one would be wrong. The briefest of appalled glances yields: eyeballs in a jar, a plastic container full of squirming, fat larvae, and something disgusting evolving in a bottle of milk. Mycroft quickly withdraws to the living room where he opts to seat himself in the leather armchair because there’s less chance of anything nasty crawling out of it.

As expected, when Sherlock returns, he’s alone. Doctor Watson is, after all, attending a job interview with the lovely Ms Sawyer this morning - a partnership very nearly made in Heaven.

Spotting Mycroft, Sherlock scowls. “What are you doing here?”

“I got your message. You said you wanted to see me.”

“No. I said I wanted to talk to you.” Sherlock removes his coat and scarf, and flings them onto the settee. “London has perfectly good telephone reception. With your aversion to legwork, I assumed you’d phone.”

“Really? The fact that you’d contacted me at all led me to believe it was must be something important. Something you might prefer no-one else overhear.”

Some of the hostility drains from Sherlock’s expression.

“I ran into an old acquaintance yesterday,” he says, taking the red armchair opposite. “At a bank.”

Mycroft feels a flutter of surprise. Another Angel, stationed in London? An Angel, working at a _bank_?

“So -” Sherlock pauses to lean forward in his chair, not quite threatening but definitely challenging. “- d’you want to tell me what Sebastian Wilkes is doing here? You could have warned me - or was letting me bump into him ‘accidentally’ some sort of test?”

Mycroft’s surprise stops fluttering and decides to punch him in the gut instead. Sebastian Wilkes is at the root of all their problems: Sherlock idolized him once. Mycroft tries to hide his consternation but Sherlock is watching him intently and his eyes open wide.

“You didn’t know! Management didn’t tell you.”

There’s no point denying it. Mycroft shakes his head, mind working over-time. Only this morning he spent a few minutes familiarizing himself with the list of every Angel working in London. Wilkes’ name wasn't on it. What does this mean? An Authority working in the same city? Is he being monitored?

“You think they're checking up on you,” Sherlock deduces, mouth twitching with amusement as he puts Mycroft’s fears into words.

“Possibly,” Mycroft says coolly, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s what Management do.”

Sherlock snorts.

“Mycroft - you know as well as I do that Management like their standard surveillance to make an impression. It’s part of the process: they intimidate, you behave. The only reason Wilkes would have for not making his presence felt would be if he was conducting a late-stage investigation. You’d have had fair warning before this.”

Mycroft sucks his teeth, thinking. “Perhaps your meeting with him _was_ a warning.”

Sherlock gets up from his chair and begins pacing, hands pressed together, forefingers against his lips.

“No. No, this was something else.”

“What?”

Sherlock crosses the room, comes back, an intense light in his eyes. He seems on the verge of saying something but then appears to think better of it.

Instead he grins and throws up his hand. “I have absolutely _no_ idea!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With special thanks to Ste Kenwright whose expert help with the sword-fight scene led to a surprise discovery that helped shape the whole story.


	5. Two People Who Like One Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s so engrossed in his reconnaissance that he doesn’t notice there's a body in his path until he collides with it._
> 
> _His first reaction is to offer a bland apology and hurry on, but the face that looks up at him is a startlingly familiar one - but, at the same time, not familiar at all. Sherlock stares, wondering if he’s ever examined John Watson properly before. Shouldn’t he know his eyes are this bright? Or that they’re this fascinating kaleidoscope of brown and blue? Shouldn’t he have noticed that, under his tan, John’s skin has such peachy hues? Of course he should! He notices everything. Ergo, John doesn't normally look so vibrant. The changes Sherlock sees in him must be an effect of the cold air and the light, just like the tingling in his own extremities - a tingling which, Sherlock realizes with some alarm, has suddenly grown much more intense. He needs to get inside, and soon, before Earth's climate causes actual damage._

John checks his reflection in the mirror: smart shirt, nice jumper and jeans. Nothing like as dashing as Sherlock, of course, but - for an informal interview - it will do. A GP should look professional but approachable, and he needs this job. Needs a girlfriend _and_ a job.

He straightens his collar. 

Job first. 

He's on his way.  
   
From the outside, the surgery on Devonshire Place is a building very like 221B. On the inside, it’s much brighter. Cream and dove grey walls, light beech laminate floor. It’s busy, too - which is a good sign - and John feels optimistic as he waits for his interview with the practice head, Sarah Sawyer. He wonders what she’s like. There was a Miss Sawyer at school, and she really didn’t like him.  
 

________________

   
Alone in the flat, Sherlock sits down to think. Five dead Nephilim, Wilkes’ unexplained presence in London and now, according to _Online News_ , Van Coon’s killer has struck again. Except … The MO is the same (locked doors, locked windows, fourth floor flat) but Lukis … Lukis was bald, greasy and puffy, and can't have been the least bit Angelic.

Even so, it's like Christmas. Sherlock’s entire brain is occupied. There are no unexercised regions restlessly seething; no dark little corners of memory suddenly flooding with light. He has more information to sift through than he’s ever had in his life, and he can feel his muscles relaxing under the sheer weight of it. Symbols flash and fade in his mind’s eye: graffiti and hieroglyphs, runes and folded back card …  
 

________________

   
Sarah Sawyer is nothing like Miss Sawyer from school. She’s young, and warm, and attractive - and she seems to like John, so he's feeling pretty pleased with himself as he makes his way home. He can't wait to share his success with Sherlock - and, yes, to brag a little.

He finds Sherlock still sitting exactly where he left him, apparently not even having noticed that John went out. John tosses him the pen he claims to have been waiting an hour for with ill grace. Irritatingly, Sherlock catches it.

“I went to see about a job at that surgery,” John announces, since Sherlock's clearly not interested enough to ask. Not interested, full stop.

“How was it?”

“It’s great,” John says, casting his mind back to the way Sarah smiled at him, the way she looked up at him from under her lashes. “She’s great.”

“Who?” Sherlock asks snapping out of his reverie, and John grimaces, feeling inexplicably guilty.

“The _job_." 

“ 'She' ”?

“ _It_.”

John holds his breath, hoping he's got away with his blunder but Sherlock's eyes narrow and his nostrils fare. Or at least, John thinks they do, because it's only for a split second and then Sherlock looks away. When he looks back at John again, his expression is unreadable, his manner all business.  
 

________________

   
When they descend on Scotland Yard, Sherlock full of investigative zeal, John rather enjoys the way he orders Inspector Dimmock about - although he’s less keen on the result: access to Lukis’ flat. The dead journalist’s home isn’t just a crime scene, it’s also a dump. The man’s housekeeping standards make Sherlock’s seem almost hygienic. There are books and papers everywhere, unwashed crockery growing mould in the kitchen and empty beer bottles all over the kitchenette. It’s such a tip, John can’t believe they’ll find anything useful - so, of course, it takes Sherlock less than a minute to work out that Lukis' killer must have climbed up the outside of the building to break in, and mere seconds to identify his point of entry.

Well, he _is_ brilliant.

Even so, John thinks the library book ‘clue’ is a long shot, but it’s the best lead they’ve got, and Sherlock seems so convinced it will be useful that John's happy enough to go with him to Westminster Library. It’s not as if John's got anything else to do - _yet_. He smiles to himself. If he plays his cards right, he could well be in there. All he has to do is turn on the famous Watson charm.

Up ahead of him, between the two rows of shelving, Sherlock comes to a sudden halt. 

“Lukis' book came from here,” he declares in a loud whisper, plucking volumes from a shelf.

John shifts a few books from the opposite shelf to show willing, and - bloody hell - Sherlock's right. There, right in front of John, is a bright yellow squiggle.

“Sherlock ..." he gasps, a chill running up his spine. Sometimes it’s like Sherlock has superpowers.

Sherlock is behind him in a heartbeat. So close, in fact, that John can smell his soap and shampoo, even his bloody toothpaste, and when Sherlock reaches over John’s shoulder to remove the remaining books from the shelf, the warmth of his body is far too close for comfort. Peering at the fully revealed cipher, Sherlock makes a small, soft sound of satisfaction, right into John’s ear.

John forces his thoughts back to Sarah and moves swiftly away.  
 

________________

   
Mid-afternoon, Mycroft decides another casual stroll is in order: one that just happens to take him towards Shad Sanderson’s modernist atrocity of a bank on Old Broad Street.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Sebastian Wilkes emerges from a Bank of England black Audi bang on schedule.

Mycroft’s lip curls involuntarily at the sight of him. Wilkes hasn’t changed. He still has that supercilious smile and that oily, foppish hair. Whatever appealed to Sherlock about the Authority, it can’t have been his appearance. Mycroft tosses his cigarette to the pavement, and walks over.

“Sebastian! I say - Sebastian Wilkes!”

Wilkes stops mid-stride and wheels around, his jaw dropping almost comically when his eyes meet Mycroft’s. He’s more than simply surprised to be bumping into an old acquaintance from far, far away - he’s astonished - and that’s a great relief. Mycroft can't possibly be the one Wilkes has under surveillance. 

“Mycroft Holmes!” Wilkes gushes, gripping his hand and shaking it. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Surprise? I thought you had dealings with my brother very recently.”

“He didn’t mention you,” Wilkes says, affably, casting his eyes about as if afraid of being overheard. He lowers his voice. “Then again, our meetings were purely professional, not social. He's simply doing a job of work for me, nothing more, I assure you.”

Mycroft has never liked Wilkes and, at the edge of superiority that’s crept into his voice, he bristles. 

“I trust you've been satisfied with his performance so far?” he says, smiling brightly, and taking vicious delight in the innuendo.

It's a mistake. Wilkes’ expression hardens. 

“Not entirely, no. As always, he's overstepped his bounds. You should keep him on a tighter leash. I presume that’s why you’re here - to keep an eye on him. I can’t imagine Management trusting Sherlock enough to send him here on his own.”

It’s on the tip of Mycroft’s tongue to spit back that, in point of fact, Sherlock was specially selected by Management for their mission - a mission that might save the entire Orion Arm from extinction - but he bites the words back.

“Just tell him to keep out of things that don’t concern him, Mycroft,” Wilkes says, more pleasantly. “I have important work to do and I can’t have your brother getting in the way.”  
 

________________

   
It turns out that getting arrested for something you didn’t do whilst your flat-mate decides not to stand by you, but to leg it with his little graffiti-spraying mate instead will do wonders for your perspective. John would sooner strangle Sherlock now than allow the bastard’s scent or body heat to undermine his self-image any further, and he stomps his way into the flat, fuming with righteous indignation.

Sherlock scarcely notices: he’s too busy watching himself read a book in the mirror above the fireplace. 

John slams the living room door shut.

Sherlock doesn't even look round.

“You’ve been a while,” he murmurs, casual as hell.

John clenches his fists. 

“Well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don’t like to be hurried, do they? Just the formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet … And I’ve got to be in the Magistrates Court on Tuesday.”

Sherlock isn’t listening. Whilst John burns with the unfairness of it, Sherlock’s as cool and graceful as ever, the line of his back unreasonably perfect. All he can be bothered to offer by way of a response is a vague and distracted, “What?”

What’s left of John’s patience snaps. “Me, Sherlock! In court. On Tuesday. They’re giving me an ASBO!”

Still preoccupied, Sherlock mutters “Good. Fine.” as though John’s situation were completely unimportant. Or worse still, _boring_. 

John’s blood pressure goes up another couple of bars. 

“You want to tell your little pal he’s welcome to go and own up any time.”

Sherlock snaps his book shut. 

“The symbol,” he says, as though John hadn’t spoken. “I still can’t place it.”

And then he’s whirling around, pushing John back into his jacket and ordering him to Scotland Yard to get Lukis’ diary. His hand is warm between John’s shoulder blades - firm, and compelling … and John finds himself doing exactly as he’s told, yet again, without really understanding why.  
 

________________

   
For the second time in as many days, Sherlock leaves Shad Sanderson feeling triumphant. Van Coon’s P.A. was putty in his hands, digging out all the travel tickets and receipts Sherlock needed to get a good mental map of Van Coon’s movements on the day he died.

The afternoon is a cold one - chilly but bright - and Sherlock is walking faster than usual and breathing more deeply. His fingertips tingle and the nerves in the tip of his nose pinch. It feels pleasantly like excitement.

(The game is on!)

He rounds a corner and spots a Pizza Express sign. This is it: the restaurant near Picadilly Circus station that Van Coon stopped at for lunch. Sherlock makes his way towards it, turning this way and that to scan the street. (Where was Van Coon heading? Was the drop-off point near here?) He’s so engrossed in his reconnaissance that he doesn’t notice there's a body in his path until he collides with it.

His first reaction is to offer a bland apology and hurry on, but the face that looks up at him is a startlingly familiar one - but, at the same time, not familiar at all. Sherlock stares, wondering if he’s ever examined John Watson properly before. Shouldn’t he know his eyes are this bright? Or that they’re this fascinating kaleidoscope of brown and blue? Shouldn’t he have noticed that, under his tan, John’s skin has such peachy hues? Of _course_ he should! He notices everything. Ergo, John doesn't normally look so vibrant. The changes Sherlock sees in him must be an effect of the cold air and the light, just like the tingling in his own extremities - a tingling which, Sherlock realizes with some alarm, has suddenly grown much more intense. He needs to get inside, and soon, before Earth's climate causes actual damage.

“Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died," he tells John. "Whatever was hidden inside that case. I’ve managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information - credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here. Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don’t know where, but ...”

“That shop over there,” John interrupts, tapping a finger on the open book he’s holding. “Lukis’ diary. He was here too. He wrote down the address.”

“Oh.” 

For a moment, Sherlock is stunned by the simple clarity of the Earthian mind. It may not be able to handle truly complex concepts, but it does direct and straightforward remarkably well. Or, at least, John’s does. With a small smile of appreciation and a little rush of pride, Sherlock follows him across the road.  
 

________________

   
John’s earlier resentment has melted away. He likes feeling useful, and today, he’s certainly been that. Not only was _he_ the one who discovered Lukis had a connection with the Lucky Cat shop, but he was also the one who spotted the cipher on the little beakers it had on sale. All right, it was Sherlock who realized the cipher was a Hangzhou number, but _John_ found it. Which means, he reckons, that he's earned the right to take time out for a decent meal.

Sadly, the one being set down before him is far from that. It's just a very flat omelette and an all but raw half tomato - but his mouth is watering anyway. He’s starving. He hasn’t eaten all day.

Sherlock hasn’t ordered anything. John cuts into his omelette, wondering if Sherlock eats at all. He can’t remember a single occasion when he’s seen him with his mouth full, not even on that first night, in the Chinese on Baker Street. All he did was poke at the food with his chopsticks. In fact, John’s beginning to suspect that when Sherlock suggests getting something to eat, it’s not for his own benefit but for John’s, and warmth floods his chest at the thought. He likes the idea that Sherlock might want to do things for him.

It's nice to think they’re _friends_.

Sherlock has a theory about why Van Coon and Lukis died, and that's that one of them stole something from the gang they were smuggling goods in from China for.

“The killer doesn’t know which one of them took it, so he threatens - kills - them both,” John says, catching on. He can feel himself smiling; for all the trouble Sherlock gets him into, the man's a phenomenal detective. John takes another mouthful of omelette. Now they’ve established the killer’s motive, perhaps they can relax a bit.

Except Sherlock’s not relaxing at all. His sharp gaze has come to rest on something across the street.

“Remind me,” he says. “When was the last time it rained?”

Before John can even start trying to remember, Sherlock is out of his seat and out of the café.

John looks mournfully at his half-eaten meal. He’s still hungry.

At this rate, he’s going to be as thin as Sherlock before long.  
 

________________

   
Lestrade claims to be so busy with his Earthian responsibilities that he can only leave them for an hour at most. Mycroft instructs him to present himself at The Table Café on Southwark Street on the dot of five.

The inspector arrives two minutes late looking flustered, his coat unbuttoned and running a hand through his hair.

“Is this important, Mycroft?” he grumbles, sinking onto the square leather seat across the table. “I’ve got the Chief Super breathing down my neck about all this Shad Sanderson business.”

Mycroft beckons over a waiter and orders coffee for them both, plus chocolate waffles for Lestrade. The Fallen looks as if he needs them, and useful resources are worth taking care of.

“Am I to understand you’re currently in contact with Sebastian Wilkes?” Mycroft asks, tracing the grain of the faux-rustic tabletop with an insouciant fingertip.

Lestrade sags a little at the shoulders. 

“He’s detailed me to ‘clean up’ the damage he reckons Sherlock’s done by insisting Van Coon was murdered. Despite this being Dimmock’s case, not mine.”

“And what are your impressions of our Authority?”

Lestrade presses his lips together and shrugs. “Not for me to say, is it?”

Mycroft tucks his chin into his neck to look up reprovingly at the Fallen. “I’m _asking_ you, Gregory.”

The waitress arrives with their coffee, and Lestrade seizes his mug, describing a rather wild arc with his arm as he brings it to his lips. 

“Bit of a git,” he mutters, slurping.

“Hmm. Yes, I see. Well, do you have any idea what he’s doing here? On Earth?”

“Not a clue.”

Mycroft leans forward. “Take a wild guess.”

Lestrade regards him suspiciously for a moment, then sighs.

“Not sure, but it’s nothing to do with the bank. That’s just a front. I think he’s watching someone.”

"I did wonder if _I_ might be that someone," Mycroft confesses.

Lestrade shakes his head. “No, it's not you. I think it's someone who's been here for years.”

He pauses, leaning back as another waitress appears and sets a generous plate of waffles in front of him. He sniffs them appreciatively. “This is great, Mycroft. Thanks.”

Mycroft smiles at him. “Gregory, you should know by now that there is no such thing as a free lunch. Or, indeed, a free high tea. I expect you to earn it.”

“Yeah? How?”

“Get me a name. I want to know precisely what our friend Wilkes is up to.”  
 

________________

   
There's no answer when Sherlock rings the doorbell of the flat above the Lucky Cat. (Of course there isn’t. It’s empty. That’s why no-one’s taken the telephone directory in.)

But the flat is important. Right next to the smugglers' drop-off point, it has to hold clues. Clues to who killed Van Coon and Lukis. Clues to _why_. John may think the case all about money and greed, but Sherlock knows different. Van Coon was a Nephilim. Everything else may be a smokescreen.

Leaving John to his grumbling down in the back alley below, Sherlock ascends the fire ladder up to the flat, his mind alight with anticipation. Soon - very soon - he may uncover the identity of the Nephilim-killer.

Not that anyone important will care. Certainly not Management. On Heaven, Nephilim have a bad reputation. Every school child knows humans and Angels are separate species, and separate species can't interbreed. At least, not successfully. At best, any offspring would be sterile and riddled with congenital disease; more likely, they’d be monsters. Sherlock’s not exactly shocked that they’ve all been drunks and adulterers, smugglers and thieves - and one of them tried to _kill_ him. He's not pursuing this to champion the underdogs; he's doing it because it's a compelling challenge.

At the top of the ladder, he reaches in through the open window for a handhold and hauls himself inside, narrowly avoiding knocking a vase of flowers to the floor. He dives to catch it, and spots two damp patches on the carpet under his feet. The fresh one is his doing, but the other is not. (Someone else has been here too.) The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He moves cautiously from the first room into a second, absorbing detail, collating data: laundry - damp and fusty - still in the machine; milk, gone sour, in the fridge; a beaded curtain; a rucked up rug. And the gritty imprint of a foot.

Lens in hand, Sherlock stoops down to examine it. (Size 8.) (Small.) (But athletic - he’d have had to jump pretty high to reach the fire ladder.) (A killer who can climb. Who clings to walls like an insect …)

There’s a framed photograph on a shelf above the bed. Sherlock picks it up. (Two Chinese children. A girl and a boy.) There’s a hand-print on the glass. From a small, strong hand. (The athlete. The acrobat.) (Touching but not stealing a photograph? That’s Attachment.)

Sherlock supposes that’s why the intruder didn’t bother covering his tracks by closing the window behind him when he left: he was too overcome by sentiment and uncontrolled emotion. Then understanding hits.

“Stupid! Stupid!” he chides himself, with a grimace. “Obvious. He’s still here.”

He scans the room. In the corner, there’s an ornate ebony and shell screen. (Perfect for hiding behind!) He creeps over and pulls the end section aside, but there’s no-one there. His heart sinks - only to leap again in fear when a length of soft material wraps around his throat like a garotte. It yanks him off his feet and he falls. Inexorably, the cloth tightens, robbing him of his ability to breathe. He grabs at the cloth, tries to rip it off him, but despite his Angelic strength, he’s losing the battle. He needs a miracle to save him or he’s going to die.

( _John_.)

He tries to cry out to him, but there’s no air in his lungs. He struggles, kicks, and tries again, but the cloth around his neck is too tight. His vision starts to darken, his sense of where he is blurs. Death beckons, and there’s nothing he can do to evade it.

But as swiftly as the attack began, it suddenly stops. The tourniquet about his throat loosens, and is gone. He gasps and air rushes into his lungs. It's cool and sweet - sweeter than any air he's ever breathed on Heaven - but his ravaged throat is raw, and inhaling makes him cough. He rolls over, drags himself up onto his hands and knees, hangs his head and waits for the pain to pass. When finally he can breathe properly again, he pats himself down, checking for other injuries. He doesn't find any - but he finds something else instead.

A little black scrap of origami work. 

Just like the one he pulled from Van Coon’s dead mouth.  
 

________________

   
By the time they've left the National Museum it's dark, and John might be getting tired if the trail hadn't just got a lot hotter. They've just seen the same cipher scrawled on a statue in the museum’s basement, and that little scrote Raz has discovered another at his local skate park. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock decides they need to check the whole of the surrounding area in case there are more.

Detailed to go left, whilst Sherlock goes right, John sets off through an underpass beyond the park, although without much hope. Raz may have an eye for paint, but John hasn’t and this whole place is a forest of ugly tags and pointless scrawl. In fact, it's an unsavoury part of town all round - full of beggars in filthy rags, holding out battered hats and plastic cups. John gives what he can, fervently hoping he’s doing more good than harm.

It’s getting cold and John's found nothing. His breath is hanging in clouds in front of his face, and he’s started to shiver. It’s time to go home. He’ll just walk a few hundred yards further up the railway track to show willing, then call it a day.

He sweeps his torch beam listlessly over the ground ahead. It wouldn’t do to fall here. On this stretch, the line’s not electrified but plenty of trains pass this way. The light casts a puddle of ghostly light at his feet, a thin grey-white that suddenly turns yellow. John pulls up short. Sweeps the beam back across the ground. There's more yellow - dots and splodges of it, all the way up to a nearby brick wall …

John catches his breath. The wall is covered with ciphers, all in the same vivid yellow. He takes out his phone.

Sherlock doesn’t answer his first call, nor the second, or the third. In the end, John has to run back to the spot where they parted, then down another length of track in order to find him, his blood is pumping excitedly. He’s found what they’re looking for! Sherlock will be so impressed!

But when John leads him back to the wall, the bricks are just bricks - completely blank. John's disappointment is so bitter he can almost taste it. This was supposed to have been his moment, his contribution, but all he can do is stumble about in disbelief, looking like an utter tit.

“I don’t understand. It was here. Ten minutes ago. I saw it.”

He half-expects Sherlock to call him an idiot, but instead he looks knowing.

“Somebody doesn’t want me to see it.” 

The next thing John knows, Sherlock has seized his head and is holding it firmly between his hands.

His touch makes John’s heart leap and his legs go weak, and it’s no good telling himself it’s an understandable response to surprise: he _likes_ Sherlock holding him like this.

“Hey!” he gasps, trying to pull away, before Sherlock notices. “What are you doing?”

Far from letting go, Sherlock holds on. His grip is like iron, despite the soft leather of his gloves. 

“Shh, John," he croons. "Concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes.”

 _Oh fuck._ It would be so easy to give in to this feeling. To snatch Sherlock's head with both hands too, and pull him in closer still. Apart from the Bastion medics and his RCS assessor, John hasn’t been touched this intimately by anyone in over a year. No wonder his whole body's awash with inappropriate need.

“What?" he gasps. "Why? Why?”

Sherlock grabs him by the upper arms and leans in, the look in his eyes terrifyingly intense. Almost as if he's about to move in for a kiss.

“What are you doing?” John asks - _squeaks_ \- light-headed, as the world starts to spin.

But it’s not the world, he realizes, with a jolt. It’s _him_. Sherlock is spinning him around and around, as if he wants to whisk him off his feet, and how the hell is John supposed to resist that?

But he doesn't need to because, far too soon, reality comes crashing in hard. The pressure of Sherlock's surprisingly strong fingers has nothing to do with desire.

“I need you to maximize your visual memory,” Sherlock explains. “Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?”

“Definitely,” John snaps, knowing he ought to be relieved and hating himself because he isn't. 

Sherlock’s eyes bore into him. 

“How much can you remember? Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

“I remember all of it," John says, because he does. Just like he knows he'll remember all of this. In gory - and highly embellished - detail later tonight, when he’s upstairs in his room, alone.

“Really?”

"I would if I can get to my pockets! I took a photograph," John growls, twisting violently away, and at last, Sherlock lets go.

John hands him his phone, and as Sherlock looks at it, all that wonderful fire and intensity drain rapidly away.

John sighs. He's helped Sherlock, and avoided making a complete arse of himself, but now that Sherlock’s hands are no longer on him, the London night feels bitterly cold.  
 

________________

   
It's not cold in the museum, and yet Soo Lin Yao - owner of the flat above the Lucky Cat, and teapot expert in residence - is trembling. If Sherlock needed persuading of the value of Detachment, the fear he sees in her eyes would do it. It's worse than any fear he’s ever seen. In the lab, his test subjects would struggle, scream and release bodily fluids - classic flight or fight responses - but Soo Lin’s system seems to have bypassed the hope of escape entirely.

He'd love to run some proper tests on her: analyse her blood chemistry, map her cerebral activity, measure her breathing. Management would certainly welcome information on an Earthian who reacts to the threat of death not with violence but passive acceptance. Sherlock would like the information for its own sake. 

“You saw the cipher,” she says. “Then you know he is coming for me.”

“Who is 'he'?” Sherlock asks, although he already knows. “Have you met him before?”

“He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen. I refused to help.”

John leans in across the museum bench, radiating concern. 

“So you knew him well?" he asks. "When you were living back in China?”

“Oh, yes,” Soo Lin says. “He’s my brother.”

Sherlock feels a rush of triumph - and a little sympathy. (Brothers are a hideous burden.) He shows her John’s photograph of the yellow-daubed wall.

“Can you decipher these?”

She looks down at it with the same unnatural stillness as before. 

“These are numbers."

“But what’s the code?”

“All the smugglers know it. It’s based upon a book-”

The thrill of standing on the brink of knowledge zips like an electric current through Sherlock’s veins, and he holds his breath expectantly, but before Soo Lin can utter another word, there’s a hollow thunk and the lights go out.

He hears Soo Lin inhale sharply in the darkness. 

“He’s here,” she whispers. “Zhi Zhu. He has found me.”

Sherlock can hardly believe his luck. The murderer is in this very building! The Nephilim-killer has come to him!  
 

________________

   
John grabs Soo Lin by the hand. There's another room behind them. He pulls her in and together they crouch down in the darkness.

The right thing - the gallant, gentlemanly thing - to do would be to stay with Soo Lin and protect her, and John _tries_ , but when he hears shooting his priorities shift. Sherlock can't face Zhi Zhu alone. He's going to get himself killed. John has to help. 

He tells Soo Lin to bolt the door when he's gone and races off after Sherlock - out from the store, up the stairs and into the central hall. The empty space means he's vulnerable and, at the sound of another shot he ducks down instantly - just like he had drummed into him during basic training.

The sound of gunfire has haunted his dreams ever since he got shot. He hears the explosion of noise, feels the searing agony of it and wakes up sweating, feeling sick.

More shots ring out in the distance. John hears Sherlock shout once - then silence. Cold dread grips his heart: Sherlock could be injured, dead, lying in a pool of his own blood. No, John can’t accept that. _Won’t_. 

Then reason kicks in. John heard Sherlock’s voice _after_ the final shot. He must still be alive.

John pauses, listening, wondering which way to go.

From somewhere below him comes the sound of another shot. Just one. More like a pop than anything. Soft, and quiet, and final.

With a lurch of horror, John realizes it came from the store. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes, sickened, and he tears back the way he came. He should never have left Soo Lin unprotected. It was weakness, not bravery, that sent him running off to Sherlock’s aid.

He flies down the stairs, past cool, marble sculptures of perfect beings, past paintings of long dead kings, but he’s too late.

Soo Lin is lying on the table she worked at, one arm outstretched, and in her open, lifeless hand there’s a black, paper flower.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft's first stop is Bart's hospital. He finds Stamford in the pathology lab, spinning test-tubes in a centrifuge.

Stamford nods in greeting. "Mycroft. What can I do for you?"

"A little information, if you wouldn't mind.”

What kind are you looking for?"

"Nothing complicated," Mycroft assures him. "Just a bit of background intel on the flat-mate you found for my brother."

Stamford frowns. "John Watson, you mean? There's not a problem, is there?"

"On the contrary. They've been running around together all over London. Investigating crimes." Mycroft can't help grimacing at the very idea.

Stamford visibly relaxes. 

"That's good," he says. "I'm glad they're getting on. I thought they would. John's a great bloke. One of the best."

"Is he? Is he, indeed? Because ... well, I'd have thought that at Watson's age, a 'great bloke', as you put it, would be married with children. Is there ... any particular reason he's still a bachelor?"

Stamford shrugs. 

"Dunno. Always thought it was because he went into the Army. All that moving about and getting shot at."

Mycroft would dearly love to believe that. He smiles. 

"Find out for me, will you? Ask around. Discreetly, of course."

"All right. Discreet enquiries coming up. Consider it done."  
 

________________

   
There are road works on the A3212 (well, of _course_ there are - Earthian transport is so primitive), which means the taxi ride from the museum to Scotland Yard is taking far longer than it should. Sherlock fidgets with impatience all the way along Birdcage Walk, before deciding he might as well put the time to good use by explaining how book codes work. John shows no sign of listening. He just gazes out of the side window and worries at his lip.

Eventually, Sherlock snaps. He doesn't like being ignored.

“What?” he demands. "What is it?"

It takes John a moment to respond.

“I should have stayed with her,” he says, still staring out blankly through the glass. “If I’d stayed with her-”

“You’d be dead, too.”

John twists around in his seat at this, his nostrils flaring. 

“That’s not the point! I should have …” His voice trails off, and he sighs. “No. You’re right. Of course, you are.”  
 

________________

   
Books. Lots and lots and lots of books. John is surrounded by piles of them, dwarfed by them. The tower in front of him teeters dangerously and sways. There's nothing he can do to stop it. An avalanche of books overwhelms him ...

He wakes up with a start, and no idea of where he is. All he knows for certain is that his neck and back are stiff, and his mouth is dry. It’s only when he starts trying to stretch out his aches and pains that he realizes he’s sitting at an unfamiliar desk in an unfamiliar chair, and last night comes flooding back. Soo Lin, Inspector Dimmock, and crates of books. Sherlock standing over him, and the desperate, unsatisfied need to sleep.

John goes cold with shame, then hot. He’s nodded off at his desk on his first day at work. _Shit_.

Sarah is incredibly nice about it. She smiles a lot, and doesn’t say a single harsh word. It’s enough to make a bloke hope he might be in with a chance, and John’s busily thinking up the best way to ask her out, when she saves him the trouble. He can scarcely believe it. His life is definitely improving, and all the way back to Baker Street, he can hardly stop smiling.

He finds Sherlock right where he left him, still sorting through Lukis’ and Van Coon’s books. He looks up as John walks in, and scratches his head as if trying to wake himself up. Hair ruffled, shirt sleeves rolled up, he looks tired - just like an ordinary human being. _Because that’s what he is_ , John thinks with surprise, and the thought fills him with blissful relief. He's only been feeling attracted to Sherlock because he had no-one else. Now he’s got Sarah, Sherlock’s appeal has already faded. _Thank God_.

“I need to get some air,” Sherlock announces, abandoning the books. “We’re going out tonight.”

John feels a smug smile tug at his lips. All the way home, he’s been wondering how to brag about having pulled, and now here’s Sherlock, presenting him with the perfect opportunity. He lets his smile blossom.

“Actually,” he says, “I’ve got a date.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “What?”

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun.”

“That’s what I was suggesting,” Sherlock replies, still frowning.

And just like that, John’s fantasy of being in Sherlock’s arms is back with a bang. He swallows.

“No. It wasn’t. At least, I hope not.”

“Where are you taking her?”

John hadn’t really thought that far ahead. 

“Uh … Cinema?”

Sherlock sighs. “Dull. Boring. Predictable. Why don’t you try this?”

He takes a flier for a circus from his pocket and hands it to John, but John’s in no mood to be grateful.

“Thanks - but I don’t come to you for dating advice.”

But later, when he meets Sarah from the tube, his confidence that he can come up with something better completely deserts him. She looks so lovely with her clear skin and beautiful hair that he feels old and grey by comparison. Dull, even. Boring and predictable - just like Sherlock said. So John decides to steal some of Sherlock’s sparkle, and in response to her expectant, “So where are you taking me, Doctor?” he smiles back and shows her the flier.

She claps her hands together, eyes sparkling.

“It’s been years since anyone took me to the circus!”

 

The venue is what once must have a rather grand old theatre but which has now fallen on hard times. The exterior is coolly graceful, but inside, the red-flocked wallpaper is worn and peeling, the floorboards uneven and scraped. The contrast makes John uneasy as he makes his way over to the box office.

He’s even more uneasy when the receptionist tells him they’re holding three tickets for Holmes, but he doesn’t believe it until Sherlock materializes out of the shadows like an impossibly well-dressed ghost, and - bugger it - he’s everything Sarah isn’t. Difficult, surprising, imperious and … John clenches his fists in frustration.

Sherlock regards Sarah as one might an alien being: with curiosity but no warmth. 

“I’m Sherlock,” he tells her.

“Er, hi,” Sarah replies, flicking John a glance. She’s puzzled, naturally. Amazed, even. She probably suspects John of having plans for a kinky threesome.

Bloody hell, he wishes he hadn’t thought that. The pictures it conjures …

Though, _no_. It wouldn’t work. 

John would never get a look in.  
 

________________

   
Eager to avoid attracting Sherlock’s attention, instead of ringing 221B's doorbell, Mycroft goes around to the back and taps on Hudson's kitchen window instead. Stamford may be conducting investigations on his behalf, but Mycroft’s decided he needs to carry out a few of his own.

Hudson throws the back door open, eyes dancing with merriment. 

"Mycroft Holmes!" she exclaims, ushering him into her tiny flat. "This is all a bit cloak and dagger, isn't it? What do you want to be hiding from your brother for?"

"Not that it's any of your business," Mycroft tells her haughtily, "but I'm concerned about him."

"Are you, dear? That's good. Families should stick together."

"You're talking like an Earthian," Mycroft says, with distaste.

"Yes, well, they're not all stupid," she replies. "Take the doctor, for example."

"Doctor Watson? You think he's different?"

“Absolutely.”

"Different, _how_?" 

Mycroft thought the question a fairly neutral one, but Hudson instantly gives him a reproving tap on the arm. 

"Mycroft Holmes! Live and let live, that's what I say."

Mycroft feels his jaw tighten in alarm. "Are you telling me Doctor Watson is a homosexual?" he asks carefully.

The question makes Hudson giggle. 

"No, no,” she laughs, flapping a hand. “I'm telling you it's none of our business."  
 

________________

   
In some ways, Sherlock would call the evening a success: he’s proved that Van Coon and Lukis were smugglers, and now Dimmock can’t do enough for him. (A tame Earthian policeman could be a useful asset.) On the other hand, Lukis was certainly no Nephilim - one look at his corpse was proof of that - so there's no connection between his death and Van Coon’s beyond everyday Earthian criminality.

Worse still was Sarah Sawyer. Sherlock could kick himself for having left the task of finding John a female to Mycroft. Sawyer is completely unsuitable. (She’s all … _soft_. And fiddly. And she has too much hair.) John did his best with her (because that's the stoic, heroic type he is) but when Zhi Zhu and his henchman attacked, far from resorting to violence to protect her, John left her to their mercies, and rushed to Sherlock’s aid instead.

Sherlock pauses on the stairs, surprised by a sudden sensation of warmth. (Hudson keeps the place far too hot.) (It’s just as well paying the bills is someone else’s department.)

Annoyingly, Sarah has come back to the flat, too. Surely even the most dull-witted creature would have sensed John's lack of interest, and Sarah Sawyer is supposed to be _clever_. (As Earthians go.) Sherlock turns his back on her and behaves as if she weren't even in the room. (If she’s no use for experimenting on John with, then there’s no point to her.)

It takes her ages to realize that she's surplus to requirements. Then, when she finally makes a move towards the door, John insists she stay for some inexplicable, and Sherlock has to endure fumbling attempts at small talk.

“So, this is what you do," she says, twiddling with her hair. "You and John. You solve puzzles for a living.”

 _Puzzles?_ She’s an idiot. 

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrects.

Sadly, his acid tone doesn’t put her off. Far from it. She comes closer and peers over his shoulder. 

“What are these squiggles?”

Sherlock grits his teeth. He doesn’t like her. She’s boring and she tries too hard. And he can’t bear the way she simpers at John.

“They’re numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect.”

“Oh, right!” she laughs. “Yeah, well, of course. I should have known that.”

And, as if interrupting Sherlock weren’t bad enough, she whisks John's photo of the wall out from under his nose. 

“So these numbers. It’s a cipher.”

She’s added stating the obvious to her repertoire. It must be Sherlock’s lucky day!

“And each pair of numbers is a word.”

Now, _that_ was unexpected, and a prickle of suspicion makes its way up Sherlock’s spine. Who is she? What is she?

“How did you know that?”

“Two words have already been translated, here," she says, pointing. 

(She’s right!) Sherlock snatches the photograph back and, tearing it from its protective cover, sees two words, written in fine, black ink.

“John! John! Look at this! Soo Lin, at the museum. She started to translate the code for us. We didn’t see it. ‘Nine’. ‘Mill’.”

John lets out an awed breath. “Does that mean ‘millions’?”

Sherlock nods. “Nine million quid. For what? We need to know the end of this sentence.”

He grabs his coat and scarf.

John blinks at him. “Where are you going?”

“To the museum. To the restoration room,” Sherlock says, excitement beginning to pump through his veins. “We must have been staring right at it!”

John is doing some impressive staring of his own. “At … At what?”

“The book, John - the book!” Sherlock cries. “The key to cracking the cipher! Soo Lin used it to do this.” He waves the photograph under John’s nose. “Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk.”

Sherlock flies down the stairs and out onto the street. John makes no move to follow, which is vaguely disappointing - because John’s admiration always spurs Sherlock on - but it seems John's decided to give the infuriating Doctor Sarah the benefit of the doubt; that he's trying to _like_ her.

In the dazzle of street-lights and car headlamps, Sherlock is so busy thinking about John and Sarah and the experiments he has planned, that he doesn’t notice the Earthians about to cross his path until he crashes into them, knocking something from the male’s hand to the ground.

They’re tourists - stupider than average Earthians who flounder about London, cluttering up the pavements and expecting special treatment. These are no different, and they curse Sherlock in German for what they consider his rudeness. (Idiots! This is how native Londoners behave! It says so in all the books.) To shut them up, he snatches up the item they dropped - the _London A-Z_ , he notice absently - and shoves it at them, before hurrying on. It will take John and Sarah some time to bond, but the cipher puzzle is close to solution.

The _cipher_.

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks. _A book that everybody would own._ The _London A-Z_.

He races back down the pavement and snatches from the German tourist’s copy from his hand. Ignoring his outraged Teutonic protestations, he flips rapidly from page to page, decoding one pair of numbers after another.

_Dead man … Nine mill for … Jade .. Pin … Dragon's Den … Black … Tramway._

There’s a moment of stillness - of clarity, and success - then the excitement is back, stronger than ever. Sherlock whirls around, races back to the door of 221B, and up the stairs.

“John!" he shouts. "John! I’ve got it!”

(John will be amazed. Astonished. His eyes will widen. He'll lick his lips. His skin will glow. And he'll smile that mesmerizing slow smile ...)

“The cipher!” Sherlock cries, running from room to room in search of him. “The book! It’s the _London A to Z_ that they’re using-”

But there’s no John - no Sarah, either - and Sherlock’s heart clenches in disappointment. He wanted John in a romantic relationship for his research work (and yes, obviously that would involve sexual intercourse at some point), but John didn’t even finish his wine first. And did he have to leap into bed with Sarah _now_ , when Sherlock's being so utterly brilliant? John should be _here_ , gazing up in breathless astonishment, with words like “Extraordinary” and “Brilliant” tumbling from his lips.

A heartbeat later, Sherlock’s disappointment is replaced by dismay: there on the windows of the living room is the cipher again.

 _Dead Man_ \- in acid yellow scrawl.  
 

________________

   
The complete darkness John’s been drowning in starts to fracture, shards of red light stabbing at his vision. They hurt like shrapnel and he wants nothing more than to retreat back into oblivion but his body has other ideas, flooding him with orexin-A and -B and forcing him into wakefulness.

He opens his eyes.

It’s difficult to know which comes first - the horror or the nausea. It’s still dark, but John can see fire; smell smoke and decay. In the midst of it all, sits Sarah - soft, beautiful Sarah - tied to a chair, her lovely mouth silenced by a cruel slash of black fabric. She’s crying.

Struggling against the bile rising in his throat, the pain in his head, and a ghastly feeling of heaviness, John tries to reach out and comfort her. He swiftly realizes he can’t. He, too, is tied to a chair, his ankles bound tightly to the legs, his arms to the back. His wounded shoulder throbs.

Someone steps out of the glare of a spotlight and into John's field of view. A woman. With black hair and almond-shaped eyes, her features are neat and in perfection proportion. She ought to look like an angel, but the fire reflected in her eyes is straight from hell. 

She’s speaking - something about books and gardens and pockets, but none of it makes sense. All John really understands is that she thinks he’s Sherlock.

He shakes his head, tries to protest, but she doesn’t believe him. She takes John's wallet from his jacket, and pulls out Sherlock’s debit card, the cheque from Wilkes made out in Sherlock’s name, the theatre tickets Sherlock books - all the time quoting things John only half-remembers saying.

Suddenly there’s a pistol in his face, and the memory of what a bullet can do erupts from the sealed box in his head and he's back in Helmand. His flesh tears. His shoulder shatters The fear is so bad he could vomit, but somehow he remembers to count, to ground himself by digging his nails into his palms, and to breathe. 

“I am Shan,” the woman says, though what she means is ‘I am Death’ because she presses the cold pistol to his temple and squeezes the trigger.

John nearly pisses himself at the sound of the small, dry click - and then again, out of sheer relief. The gun wasn’t loaded. He’s not dead.

But Shan opens the pistol and snaps in some ammo. Live ammo, John knows. The kind of bullets that, fired at this range, won’t just end his life, but splatter his blood, and brain, and fragments of his skull all over the wall behind him, and over Sarah’s ashen face. He wishes to God he were Sherlock. Sherlock would see a way out of this, but John can’t. All he can do is dig his nails deeper into his skin and wait.

Shan threatens him again, demanding information John doesn’t have, and some distant part of his brain is grateful for that. Bad enough to die a grisly death; far worse to die a traitor. On that point, at least, he’s always been clear.

But the fatal shot doesn’t come. Instead, Shan signals to one of her men, who whisks away the cover from something just behind her. John's throat tightens, and his pulse starts to pound. It's the crossbow from the circus act, glittering red and gold in the light from the fire. He dreaded a bullet but an arrow from this thing will be no less deadly. The only difference will be the time he has to experience his own death. He shudders. He's been here before.

“Everything in the West has its price,” Shan says, her sing-song tone grotesquely at odds with her words, “and the price for her life is information.”

Wait - _her_? What? _Oh, God_. 

John’s unspoken question is already being answered: Shan’s men have lifted Sarah's chair and set it down again in the arrow’s path. As Sarah cries and struggles, Shan takes out a knife. She reaches up and slashes a hole in the counterweight sand bag hanging above her.

John has seen men die violent deaths, but never a woman. His mother’s death was a long and slow one, in hospital. There was nothing he could do then, and there’s nothing he can do now - a fact that strikes at something deep inside him, at his sense of duty and compassion and self. A real man should protect.

“Sorry,” he mutters uselessly, but his apology is lost in the excruciating sound of Sarah’s whimpers. "I'm sorry."

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Shan announces grandly, in a merciless parody of her stage act, “from the distant, moonlit shores of NW1, we present, for your pleasure, Sherlock Holmes’ pretty companion in a death-defying act!”

“Please!” John cries, frantic, but Shan is unmoved.

“You’ve seen the act before,” she says. “How dull for you. You know how it ends.”

She leans over Sarah as she says it, her smile sickly sweet, and the remorseless sand keeps spilling down.

Despair grips John’s heart. He’s powerless against an implacable foe. There’s nothing he can barter, nothing he can offer to appease her. 

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!” he cries, in one last ditch effort at convincing her.

Shan looks at him coldly. “I don’t believe you.”

John closes his eyes, unable to watch, but someone further up the tunnel gives a shout.

“You should, you know!”

John’s eyes fly open again just in time to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's unmistakeable silhouette darting past as he braves Shan’s raised pistol.

“Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him,” Sherlock declares loudly, ducking back into the shadows. “How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

The unabashed vanity is so very Sherlock, this must actually be real, John realizes - not a figment of his desperate imagination.

"Late?" he offers, trying to laugh, but the word comes out like a sob.

“That’s a semi-automatic,” Sherlock warns Shan from the darkness as she tries to take aim at him. “If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second.”

“Well?” Shan demands. 

Sherlock leaps out from the shadows, wielding what looks like a length of lead piping and strikes one of her men a blow to the head that knocks him to the ground, before melting back into the darkness.

“Well, the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres,” Sherlock explains. “If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you_.”

With that he comes tearing out of the dark and kicks over one of the braziers. It crashes noisily to the ground. The loss of light seems like almost complete darkness but, in the confusion that follows, John sees Sherlock crouch down behind Sarah’s chair and begin working furiously to untie her. _Thank God._ John breathes a sigh of relief, because the sand is still falling, the crossbow still primed.

His relief is short-lived. Almost immediately, one of Shan’s men launches himself at Sherlock, trying to strangle him with a length of red cloth, and Sherlock has to abandon his rescue attempt in favour of trying to keep breathing. There’s a struggle. Sherlock breaks away, but the man is on him again in a heartbeat, and all Sarah can do is stare in helpless terror at the arrow that’s going to end her.

Sherlock is gasping for breath, clutching at the material around his throat, still trying to get back to his rescue of Sarah. His determination sparks John into action. Still bound to the chair, he can’t move swiftly or well, but he rocks forward onto his feet and shuffles awkwardly forward. The floor of the tunnel is rough and uneven, and he trips. In his unbalanced position there’s nothing he can do when he loses his footing but fall to the floor. It’s a bitter blow, but John’s in fight mode now. Fighting not just for his own life, but for Sarah’s and Sherlock’s too. He swings his legs around and up. Kicks the crossbow's stand. It swings around, just as the lead weight makes contact with the pan, and the arrow whizzes free.

It strikes Sherlock’s attacker square in the chest, piercing bone, lung and heart. The man staggers, and John subsides, exhausted, to the floor. Free once more, Sherlock releases Sarah from her chair, making soft sounds of comfort, and running his hands reassuringly down her arms.

John watches him, amazed. He’s never seen Sherlock so gentle or so tender, and though he’s grateful for it, his stomach twists with envy. Why is Sarah Sherlock's first priority, when he doesn't even like her?  
 

________________

   
A knock on Mycroft’s office door announces Anthea's arrival. She’s carrying an armful of manilla folders, so thick with secret documents that they’re hard to keep hold of, and it’s with obvious relief that she sets them down on his desk before even a single sheet of classified information has managed to break free. It’s a shame the same can’t be said about that damned missile defence programme, Mycroft thinks, wearily. As if the Korean elections weren’t enough to occupy the new few months.

He glances up at the clock. It’s past midnight. He should have been tucked up in bed in Smith Square hours ago. Of course, in his position, his time’s his own, but with Sebastian Wilkes prowling about, up to God knows what, Mycroft calculates it will look better on his report if he keeps his nose firmly pressed to the Earthian grindstone. He takes a file from the pile, and squares up the rest before setting them aside. As he scans the first document, his mobile buzzes softly. The display shows Lestrade’s face at its most sombre.

“Gregory. I take it you have something for me.”

“I’m outside,” Lestrade says. “Across the road.”

He rings off abruptly, with no word of warning or goodbye.

Leaving his government work on the desk, Mycroft quits his office, locking the door behind him. He tells the attendant on reception that he’s going out for a cigarette and, taking out his pack of Silk Cut and his lighter for authenticity, he exits the building.

Lestrade is lurking just out of the pool of light cast by a street-lamp, the collar of his coat turned up against the night air. He nods a greeting as Mycroft approaches.

“Well?”

“Wilkes' target is an Angel called James Moriarty. He’s got a reputation as a fixer. My intel's not clear, but I'm guessing he's a Dominion - and it looks like he's linked to some of the murders Sherlock’s been investigating. The weird thing is, the search threw up info on contact with a Chinese woman called General Shan.”

General Shan. Mycroft racks his memory for any links with his own work on Far East politics but finds none. “Why is that ‘weird’?”

Lestrade's expression turns grim. “She’s on her way to Bart’s mortuary. Dead. Her body was found in a room at the Radisson on Leicester Square about an hour ago.”

Mycroft takes a deep, settling drag on his cigarette. 

“Heaven doesn’t employ murderers.”

“No,” Lestrade agrees. “But they do employ people who get things done - and by all accounts, Moriarty definitely gets things done.”  
 

________________

   
The _Sunday Express_ , _Telegraph_ and the _Observer_ have all led with the jade pin story, and there are acres of column inches devoted to the intricacies of the case in all of the papers. Even though Sherlock's not mentioned by name (Dimmock needed the credit), the praise heaped on his deductions is gratifying. It goes some way, he suppose, towards compensating for the fact Shan escaped.

John resolutely refuses to see that as a failure, and reminds Sherlock that he cracked both the code and the case. Sherlock smiles to himself. John is delightfully easy to impress - or rather, John's always impressed by _him_. He didn't think much of Dimmock's floundering or Sebastian's smugness. He may be just an Earthian, but he doesn't lack judgement.

Nor appetite. He's currently slathering jam and butter on a second piece of toast. Sherlock watches him bite into it, and when John's eyes close momentarily in blissful satisfaction, he's almost tempted to try some himself.

"It was a pretty good night - in the end," John says, tongue darting out to lick the crumbs from his lips. "Though possibly not ideal for a first date."

"No," Sherlock agrees. "I'm no expert, but I don't imagine nearly getting an arrow through the heart is top of many women's lists."

"Just as well Sarah's not most women, then," John says with a grin. "She wants us to go out again tonight."

And, just like that, Sherlock's appetite is gone.


	6. Puzzles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Watson shuffles noisily back into the seat and clear his throat._
> 
> _“Um, well, I was wanting to … uh, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans. The missile plans.”_
> 
> _"Did he?"_
> 
> _“Yes.” The Earthian smiles back, nervous and attempting to ingratiate himself. “He’s investigating now. He’s - uh - investigating away.”_
> 
> _It’s such a patent lie, Mycroft would laugh, were his jaw less painful. He settles for answering Watson’s questions instead. It seems only fair: Watson’s whole manner is answering his. Everything about the Earthian screams devotion to Sherlock, a devotion Sherlock has been weak enough - vain enough - to encourage. The bond Watson feels towards Sherlock will only strengthen; it may even come to be reciprocated, if it’s allowed to continue. Sherlock’s so certain he’s immune to Attachment and feelings, he won’t even notice it happening, until it’s too late._
> 
> _It’s clearly time for Mycroft to intervene._

Sherlock glares at the meatballs and mashed potato the flight attendant sets in front of him. He’s never felt less like eating in his life. His trip to Belarus was nothing but a wild-goose chase. An icy, infuriating wild-goose chase. 

The flight back from Minsk takes eight and a half hours, and by the time his plane (an Austrian Airlines Airbus 320-200) touches down (on Heathrow’s southern runway), his plans for revenge against Mycroft have reached Old Testament proportions. Plagues of locusts and rains of fire won’t get a look in. It was a stupid case: Barry Berwick was bound to hang from the outset. Mycroft should never have promised Management that Sherlock would make their murderous ex-squaddie problem go away. Not that Sherlock went to please Management. He went because Mycroft insisted, as a fellow soldier, Berwick might prove ‘a useful comparative study’. He wasn’t. He was dull and predictable and stupid, and nothing like John at all.

Unless, of course, John’s murdered his girlfriend during Sherlock’s absence - but that is surely too much to hope for.

With Procurement’s beautifully faked-up documentation, Sherlock clears Passport Control easily and hurries to the taxi rank outside. After the trials of the past few days, it’s an almost Earthian pleasure to sink back into the cab’s leather seat.

It’s almost eleven when the taxi pulls up outside of 221B. Sherlock shoves a handful of notes into the driver’s outstretched hand and leaps out. (Home!) He gazes up expectantly at the living room windows but finds them dark. Not a single light is showing, even though the curtains haven’t been drawn. (John isn’t in. He hasn’t been for some time.) For some reason he’s too tired to fathom, Sherlock finds the discovery annoying - probably because now he’ll have to make his own tea - and he stomps up the stairs to the flat, comfortable in his indignation.

The following morning, there’s still no sign of John and Sherlock is forced to brew his own coffee, too - a task John makes look easy but for which Sherlock has no patience. He prowls about the kitchen, casting baleful looks at the pale drizzle outside the window and the slow, dark progress of the cafetiére inside.

A little light relief is provided mid-morning by the arrival of a courier with a severed human head. Sherlock unpacks it from its garish bio-hazard packaging and sets it despondently on a tray. His intention, in ordering the thing from Stamford in the first place, was to gauge the degree of reverence John deems appropriate for deceased Earthian body parts. It’s one of the more peculiar things Management wants to know, but Sherlock just thinks that surprising John with it could be funny. Since John _isn’t here_ , Sherlock supposes he’ll have to find somewhere to store it until he comes back. His best option is the fridge, which boasts an opaque, stainless steel door for concealment (in order to preserve its surprise value), and an efficient seal to minimize odour (ditto). Never mind John’s precious food supplies; they’ll have to go.

However, when Sherlock opens the door, he finds the fridge empty. No milk, no bread and no jam - not even a half-eaten tin of beans. Ruling out the impossible notion that John's given up eating (he gets quite ill-tempered if there’s insufficient food in the house), only one explanation remains: in the five days Sherlock’s been away, John can’t have spent more than one night here. (He's been with Sarah.) Sherlock shoves the severed head into the fridge and shuts the door, surprised to hear the shelves rattle.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon crawl by, and there’s still no sign of John. Sherlock toys with the idea of watching the television but he can’t find the remote control; he thinks about getting washed and dressed, but can’t be bothered. Instead, he paces about the house, growing ever more resentful that he’s been put in this position of being able to do nothing but wait.

At one point, he finds himself walking into John’s room - somewhere he’s never been before. He realizes immediately that this has been a grave omission: an experimenter should collect as much background information on his subject as possible, and there’s a wealth of it here. He opens John’s wardrobe and looks inside. Lots of shirts and jackets - several of which are new to him. Though not to John, going by the faint scent of his body they’re giving off. Sherlock runs his fingertips over them, absorbing the data: John favours soft, warm fabrics; prefers earth-tones like brown, and green, and beige.

After spending a few minutes examining the soles of John’s shoes and boots in order to calculate precisely how long his psychosomatic limp lasted (eight months), Sherlock moves on to the chest-of-drawers. It’s largely empty but the top drawer is half-full of clean underwear, allowing Sherlock to deduce that John is planning to come home at some point in the near future. That, at least, is something, Sherlock decides, his fingers roaming absently over John’s time-softened pants and socks. John’s underwear is all so comfortable and lived-in, it’s a shock to encounter something cold and hard tucked away in a corner. Sherlock closes his hand around it and pulls it out.

It’s a British Army L106A1. John’s pistol from Afghanistan, the pistol he shot the suicide pill cabbie with. Sherlock turns it over in his hand, testing the weight of it, exploring the casing and the gentle curves of the trigger. It’s such a well-crafted, almost sensual thing. (Unsurprising. Earthians hold violence in high regard when able to justify its use to themselves.) He closes his eyes and tries to imagine how John must have felt, using it. Did he hold his breath, as he hovered on the precipice of a fellow Earthian’s destruction? Was it thrilling to tighten his hand around the shaft and pull the trigger? Did unleashing the bullet _excite_ him?

It’s only after Sherlock has drifted back downstairs, that he realizes he’s still holding the weapon. He sets it down on the hearth tiles, where it lies like an answer to a question he hasn’t yet posed, full of meaning his normally agile brain is unable to decipher.

As he straightens up again, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror above the fire, and what he sees there makes him start. His eyes look empty, his mouth slack. (This is what happens when you take an Angel of massive intellect away from his work and from decent experimental equipment.) (Especially when their test subjects decide to up and vanish.) How much longer does Mycroft expect him to endure this life? Sherlock glowers at the face looking back at him; tells it it’s time to stop taking this boredom lying down.

He scans the room, looking for some way of venting his newly re-awoken rebellious streak. He doesn’t have to look far. Raz’ paint can (John Michigan, zinc-based, Daytona Yellow) is still on the mantelpiece. Sherlock picks it up and pops off the lid. Crosses the room and directs its jet at the wall. Hudson is as much to blame for his incarceration as anyone - her aiding and abetting Mycroft can’t go unpunished - so Sherlock daubs a stylized face, its mouth upturned in a defiant smile, on her precious designer wallpaper. It amuses him for all of a minute; then he's bored again, and looking for something else to do. It seems like Divine Intervention when he notices that John’s left his laptop on the coffee table. He switches it on.

 _A Study in Pink_ , he sees, lurking amongst John’s Documents. He opens the file and starts reading.

_I've blacked out a few names and places because of legal matters but, other than that, this is what happened on the night I moved in with Sherlock Holmes._

(Oh! This is perfect! John has been keeping a diary right from the start.) This could prove invaluable in Sherlock’s research, and he can feel himself grinning.

_When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story. He could tell so much about me from my limp, my tan and my mobile phone. And that's the thing with him. It's no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things._

_This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun. Seriously. He didn't know. He didn't think the Sun went round the Earth or anything. He just didn't care. I still can't quite believe it. In so many ways, he's the cleverest person I've ever met but there are these blank spots that are almost terrifying._

Sherlock’s grin tightens and freezes. He feels his nostrils flare and sees the knuckles of the hand holding the laptop steady with turn white. He’s a genius - all Heaven knows that. But not, apparently, ‘Dr. John. H. Watson’ - a man who can't even punctuate properly! Sherlock skims the rest of the entry, but it contains nothing interesting or original, just an outline of the Jennifer Wilson murder and some second-hand insults from Sally Donovan. Sherlock snaps the laptop shut and puts it back on the table.

By three-thirty, his boredom levels have reached critical. He flings himself into his arm chair and stares listlessly at the walls. Earth has to be the most tedious planet in the entire Orion Arm. (No wonder Earthians are so prone to violence: they probably kill each other just to relieve the monotony.) Sherlock knows how they feel. If Lestrade doesn’t call with an interesting puzzle soon, if John doesn’t come home, he’ll have no option but to start breaking things.

Lestrade doesn’t call. John doesn’t come home. Sherlock picks up John’s pistol and fires two bullets into the wall. It doesn’t help. He slumps further into his chair.

He’s beginning to consider putting the pistol to his own temple when, downstairs, the front door opens and bangs shut again. It must be John. A wave of very un-Angelic fury wells up in Sherlock - this is all John’s fault - and he fires another four bullets into the wall to make his feelings on the situation very, very clear.

“What the hell are you doing?” John yells, from out on the landing. There’s a deliciously nervous note in his voice that does wicked things to the nerves low down in Sherlock's belly.

“Bored,” he says curtly, making it sound like the accusation it is.

John takes a step further towards the threshold, but he’s clearly taking no chances. 

(Of course! He’s been shot himself; he knows what a bullet can do.) (This should be interesting …) 

Sherlock jumps up from his chair, shouts “Bored” again and empties the pistol’s magazine still further, relishing the way John cowers outside the door, hands over his ears.

In the lull of the satisfaction he derives from John’s mixture of anger and fear, Sherlock pauses, one bullet left, but before he can fire it, John rushes him and snatches the pistol from his hand. Or rather, Sherlock lets him. The weapon has served its purpose. He’s no longer alone.

Predictably, the damage to the wall makes John grumble. Sherlock tosses his head in contempt at such bourgeois materialism and flings himself down on the sofa. _Things_ don’t matter. He’d expected better of John.

John locks the gun carefully away in a drawer - like a miser, hoarding his gold. Only then does he take off his coat and hang it up.

“What about that Russian case?” he asks.

The question is an improvement on fussing about bricks and mortar, but it’s still annoying, given the futility of Sherlock's trip.

“Belarus,” he corrects. “Open and shut case of domestic murder. Not worth my time.”

“Shame,” John mutters in a voice heavy with sarcasm and makes his way into the kitchen.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the Earthian’s retreating back. (What happened to ‘extraordinary’? What happened to ‘brilliant’?) Not that an Earthian’s admiration matters one jot, but John’s lack of respect makes Sherlock itch to show him the full extent of what he’s capable of.

In the kitchen, John suddenly stops slamming doors and grumbling. 

“It’s a head,” he gasps. “A severed head!”

Sherlock smiles nastily to himself. “Just tea for me, thanks!”

The reply has John striding back into the living room, outraged. 

“There’s a severed head in the fridge.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, as if talking to a particularly stupid child. He’s rather enjoying this. It’s been days since he’s had an opportunity to experience unguarded Earthian reactions close-up: all Berwick did was lie (unconvincingly), and everyone else - from customs officials to air stewards - was trying to project an image. John, for all that he tries to hide his emotions, is always authentic.

“A bloody head!” John explodes, restating his discovery for a fourth time.

“Well?” Sherlock challenges. “Where else was I supposed to put it?” 

There’s frustration, and impotent rage, in every line on John’s face, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders have pulled taut. (Excellent! Anger achieved.) Sherlock wonders how quickly he might defuse it, how much power he has to alter John’s mood.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asks, adopting a softer tone.

It works. Almost immediately, John’s body language changes. It’s no longer openly combative, even if it’s not yet resigned.

“I got it from Bart’s morgue,” Sherlock goes on. “I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.”

John covers his eyes and sighs, apparently having lost the power of speech. Or the desire to engage in it. But the prospect of John just sitting there, saying nothing, irritates Sherlock all over again, and rouses the ruthless interrogator in him. He’s dealt with far tougher individuals who thought they’d be able to resist his questioning - and, although Sherlock may not be able to pass an electric current through John, he knows him far better.

“I see you’ve written up the taxi driver case,” he begins, deliberately casual.

John makes a mumbled sound of agreement and takes his seat by the fire.

“ ‘A Study in Pink’,” Sherlock quotes. “ _Nice_.”

John looks a bit embarrassed at hearing his ridiculous title spoken out loud. (As well he should.)

“Well, you know - pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink.” He pauses. “Did you like it?”

“No,” Sherlock draws the word out. Training an Earthian is much like training any other creature. They need a system of rewards and punishments. They need to know when they’ve done wrong.

But there’s no apology from John, no cringing. 

“Why not?” he asks.” I thought you’d be flattered.”

“Flattered!” Sherlock snorts. “ ‘Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.' ”

“Now, hang on a minute.” John shakes his head and makes a placatory hand gesture. “I didn’t mean that in a-”

“Oh!” Sherlock interrupts. “You meant ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a _nice_ way. Look, it doesn’t matter to me who’s Prime Minister or who’s sleeping with who-”

“Whether the Earth goes round the Sun,” John supplies.

(Ah. So that's where the charge of ignorance comes from!) 

“Not that again,” Sherlock snaps. “It’s not important.”

“Not impor-” John twists around in his seat. “It’s _primary_ school stuff. How can you not know that?”

Sherlock has to hide his face in his hands: John may not be the most luminous of individuals but, if he sees Sherlock’s expression, he’ll know. Or at least start suspecting that, far from having no understanding of the Copernican system, Sherlock knows a great deal about it indeed. 

“Well, if I ever did,” he mutters, “I’ve deleted it.”

“ ‘Deleted it’?” John echoes, refusing to let it drop. 

(He’s far too intuitive, too full of animal Earthian cunning.) Sherlock realizes he’ll have to switch tactics. He swings his legs round and sits up to face him. He can be very convincing when he wants and the truth is much easier to sell than lies. (The trick is simply to be selective with it.)

“Listen. This -" He presses a finger to his temple. "- is my hard drive and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful … really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

John gazes at him in rapt silence for a moment, then a twinkle comes into his eye, and a half-chuckle rises in his throat. 

“But it’s the solar system!”

His refusal to be intimidated or bamboozled is impressive, and Sherlock very nearly smiles. He remembers they’re on very dangerous ground just in time.

“Oh, hell!” he yells. “What does it matter? So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, it wouldn’t make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without _that_ , my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.”

John’s expression has slowly changed from one of mild amusement to something darker, and a rattled soldier is likely to fight. Not that Sherlock’s worried about physical violence. He could take John in a fight with one hand tied behind his back: he’s an _Angel_. But he doesn’t want John probing the extent of his knowledge in this sphere. There are no two ways about it, Sherlock decides: their conversation is over. He flings himself back down on the sofa again, and turns his back on John.

Almost immediately, he hears the distinctive click of John’s shoes crossing the bare floorboards beyond the rug as he walks off. Sherlock twists around to look over his shoulder. John, who only came in minutes ago, is already leaving again, striding across the room with purpose and a grim expression.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demands, though he doesn’t quite hit the note of righteous indignation he was aiming for, leaving the question to fall somewhere between petulant and pathetic.

“Out,” John says, the clarity of the word’s final consonant a strong indication of annoyance. “I need some air.”

With that, he’s gone again.

And 221B feels even emptier than before.  
 

________________

   
John stomps his way down Baker Street to the tube, and spends the entire half-hour journey to Pinner seething, imagining the hand-rail he’s hanging onto is not, in fact, a steel bar but Sherlock Holmes’ bloody neck. Yes, John may have had the occasional dream about kissing that neck, or about biting at it gently, but right now, he wants to damn well wring it. To think he actually missed the arrogant git whilst he was away - so badly that he ended up spending all five nights on Sarah’s sofa simply not to be alone. Well, he’s done with that. From here on in, he’s going to focus on his paid job and his girlfriend and Sherlock can get stuffed.

Sarah opens the door to John’s ferocious knocking wet-haired and in her dressing gown.

“John. Hi. Hello!” She hooks a damp tendril behind her ear and frown-smiles at him. “Uh … was I expecting you tonight? I thought Sherlock-”

“Yeah. He was. Did. I just needed to get out of there.” John feels suddenly ridiculous, turning up unexpectedly on Sarah’s doorstep, and as if every net curtain in the street has a little old lady behind it, laughing at him. “Can I, uh, come in.”

He knows he’s imposing, that seeing a new girlfriend six nights in a row - let alone sleeping on her settee - smacks of desperation and, at the searching look Sarah gives him, his heart sinks. She’s going to make some excuse and politely tell him to piss off. Well, at least she can’t claim to be washing her hair. However, as John braces himself for rejection, he sees her force a bright-eyed smile, and she opens the door wider, standing back to let him enter.

Inside, the house is warm, and neat, and predictable - just like it was last night, and the night before, and all the other nights before that. There’s nothing out of place against the soothing backdrop of pale walls and carpets and nothing weird lurking amongst the pot plants. John pauses on his way into the living room, just to breathe the peace of it in.

When he turns back to Sarah, he finds her looking at him curiously, head cocked to one side, and when their eyes met, she smiles, blinking rapidly, and gives a self-conscious little laugh. It’s not quite the reaction John was hoping for - some wild enthusiasm, her throwing herself at him, wouldn’t go amiss right now - but he decides not to think about it too deeply. He takes off his coat.

“Have you eaten?” Sarah asks, taking it from him. “I was just about to.” She waves a vague hand in the direction of the kitchen. “Nothing special. Just a bit of salad and an omelette.”

“Salad and omelette would be great,” John nods and thinks bitterly of that gruesome thing in the fridge back in Baker Street. “Better than human head any day.”

Sarah does a startled little double-take. “Sorry? Did you just say-”

“Human head. Yes. Sherlock’s got one in the fridge.”

Sarah’s mouth opens on a sharp intake of breath and her eyes widen. 

“He’s got a _head_ ,” she echoes. “In the _fridge_. Yes, well, of course he has … You know there are strict laws about human remains, don't-”

“It’s for an experiment,” John interrupts through clenched teeth, his irritation spilling over. “He can get a bloody human head in, but milk? Bread? Beans? Not a chance. I do all the shopping, d’you know that? All of it. And all the washing up. And the vacuuming. And what thanks do I get? None. I get called an idiot and told not to inflict my opinions on the world.”

Sarah sighs and gives him a gentle smile. It feels good to talk to someone who understands. Someone with normal human feelings.

“Wine?” Sarah asks, and she drapes his coat over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, on her way to a fridge mercifully free of body parts. “There’s some in the rack over there. The corkscrew's in in the second drawer down.”

As Sarah puts salad leaves through the spinner and beats eggs in a clean, white bowl, John opens the wine, finds glasses and sets the table. A table, he notes with spiteful satisfaction, that isn’t covered with Bunsen burners, flask, tubes and God knows what else.

The meal is good - _great_ \- if a little lacking in calories, but John makes up the shortfall with wine, so it’s all fine; and the conversation is civilized, with no-one accusing anyone else of being stupid or of having a ‘funny little brain’. Sarah shares a funny story about Janice on reception, and John, in his turn, makes her smile with the tale of his first night out sleuthing with Sherlock. He’s just getting to the part where Mycroft Holmes turned up and he and Sherlock started bickering, when he notices that Sarah’s smile is looking a little fixed.

“You okay?” he asks, breaking off.

Sarah shrugs. “ Yeah. It’s just … late, you know.” She pulls an apologetic face. “Work in the morning.”

John wonders if the remark is a subtle dig at him for having fallen asleep in the surgery on his first day, but he quickly reminds himself that this is Sarah, not Sherlock. All the same, it’s not exactly confidence-boosting to remember that his girlfriend is also his boss, and that whereas her job is a permanent one, his is not. Mum would be appalled.

He rises from the table. 

“I should go. Dinner was great. Thank you.”

The prospect of returning to Baker Street doesn’t exactly fill him with joy - in fact, it feels very much like another failure - but he whisks his coat off the chair with determination. Too much determination, as it turns out. The bottom of his coat catches his wineglass and, in his attempt to stop it smashing to the floor, he lurches into the chair and sends it toppling sideways. He only avoid falling himself by grabbing the edge of the table.

Sarah gives him a shrewd look as he stands clutching the rescued glass, her eyes sliding between it and the empty bottle. 

“I think you should stay,” she says, softly.

John's heart gives a little jump. Suddenly, things are looking up. He sets the glass back down on the table carefully and smiles. 

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Sarah's voice is pitched low and sultry, her chin tucked in to her throat so that she’s looking up at him through her lashes, and John feels a pleasant sense of anticipation building. He’s spent five nights here already, after all. It’s not as if this is their first date.

He takes a step nearer, something cheesy about following doctor’s orders on the tip of his tongue, and already reaching out to draw her close enough to kiss, but she raises a hand, and stops him in his tracks. 

“I absolutely insist you stay,” she says primly, although there’s a decidedly flirtatious glint in her eyes. “I need someone to help with the washing up, and I hear it’s one of your special talents.”

“I have others,” John murmurs meaningfully, because it’s true. There’s a string of ex-girlfriends who’d attest to that. And it’s been far too long since he’s had sex. If Sarah would just agree to sleep with him, he’s sure he’d stop finding Sherlock even the slightest bit attractive.

“Yes, I know,” Sarah grins. “You play the clarinet. Now, grab a tea towel. There’s work to be done.”

“And after the work?” John asks hopefully, giving her his best winning smile.

She taps a reproving forefinger against his chest. “The sofa. Or, if you prefer-”

“Yes?”

“I’ve always got a lilo.”

All night, John keeps waking, roused from sleep by a limb that’s gone numb, or the ache in his shoulder, or simply because he’s just plain cold. Each time, he tosses around a bit, finds a new position, and drops off once more, only to wake up again an hour or so later. Fitfully - that’s the word. He sleeps _fitfully_. Right up until it’s time to get up, at which point exhaustion overcomes him and he falls into a deep, deep sleep. It doesn’t last anywhere near as long as he needs, though, because the sound of doors opening and a toilet flushing drag him up from the comfortable depths.

With a groan, he hauls himself into a sitting position, and stretches out his cramped up muscles, feeling gritty-eyed and washed up.

He’s just about conscious, though by no means alert, when Sarah appears - in her dressing gown again, all soft frills and tousled hair. Distantly, John hopes she might kiss him.

She doesn’t. She just asks how he slept and turns on the telly, dangling the possibility of his sleeping in her room next time - only to make it very clear he’ll be on the floor, not in the bed. Even her offer of breakfast is a tease, because when he accepts, she tosses her head and tells him, "Well, you'd better make it yourself - 'cause I'm going to have a shower!"

There was a time when John might have risen to the bait. Might have played along with this game of push and pull, and upped the ante by chasing her playfully down the hallway. Today, he’s just too tired. Besides, he’s got no desire to make himself look any more laughable than he already has. So, as she twirls away, he stretches some more and sets about straightening his clothes, half an eye on the BBC Breakfast News, because it’s on, and _not_ toying with him.

The words ‘massive explosion’ yanks his attention up from the shirt buttons he’s fastening to the screen. He’d defy anyone to experience a massive explosion in real life and not have the self-same reaction.

With growing horror, he realizes that, despite the piles of brick rubble and broken wood that make it look like an alien landscape, the street on screen is all too familiar.

_House destroyed in Baker Street._

John can’t breathe, _NoNoNO_ on a constant loop in his brain. He’s not really aware of getting up from the sofa, nor of grabbing his coat, only that he needs to know what happened.

And that Sherlock’s safe.

He calls out to Sarah several times, but there’s no answer. Some far corner of his brain that’s not picturing Sherlock injured and bleeding - _please God, don’t let him be dead_ \- interprets her silence as a continuation of her game-playing, but he can’t bring himself to care. Sherlock’s safety is all that matters to him now.

He opens throws open Sarah’s neatly painted front door and starts to run.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft makes his way up the carpet-less stairs to Sherlock’s defiantly Bohemian abode with a heavy sense of foreboding. As soon as he heard about last night’s explosion, he suspected it was a warning, linked to the questions he’s been asking about Wilkes' mission on Earth, and now Management are demanding he prioritize discovering the whereabouts of a lost data stick. With Sherlock potentially plunging headlong into trouble with his Earthian as well, it’s hard not to feel hemmed in on all sides.

The cause of the explosion is officially a mystery but Mycroft is taking comfort from the knowledge that explosions aren’t Management's style. The warning - if it is one - isn’t from them. However, the file under his arm is definitely is, and a test of some kind. The question is _who_ are Management testing and, indeed, what might qualify as a Pass: they’ve studiously ignored Mycroft’s queries about the galactic significance of Bruce-Partington and his wretched missile programme. If Mycroft were to guess, he’d say Management were trying to assess his own willingness to follow orders on trust, or Sherlock’s, but since he’s about to enter Sherlock’s flat without the slightest understanding of why he’s been ordered to enlist his help in this business, it seems reasonable to assume he himself has already passed. Sherlock, on the other hand, is going to be a different matter …

Detritus from last night’s explosion has blown into 221B’s living room, generating clouds of dust motes. They rise and fall lazily in the shaft of harsh grey daylight that’s somehow managing to find its way past the planks of wood covering the shattered windows. In the midst of this gloomy scene, Sherlock is sitting in an armchair by the fire, scraping a forlorn and tuneless string of notes on his violin. Pieces of glass crunch under Mycroft’s feet as he crosses the room but, despite the unpleasant cracking, Sherlock doesn’t deign to look up.

The disarray, the racket and Sherlock’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge his presence only worsen Mycroft’s unease. Had Sherlock made even the smallest attempt at restoring order, there might be grounds for hope: it would have demonstrated at least some grasp of the existence of standards beyond his own and a willingness to comply with them. As it is, Mycroft knows his task is a nearly impossible one.

“Sherlock,” he begins, adopting a warm, solicitous tone. “I’m so very glad to see you’re unhurt. I trust the same can be said of Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock shrugs and drags his bow over the violin again, producing a sound so unholy that it sets Mycroft’s teeth on edge. 

“No idea.”

“He wasn’t here when it happened?”

“No.”

Mycroft is much relieved to hear it - the lovely Ms Sawyer is clearly driving a nice, juicy wedge between Sherlock and his Earthian - but he raises an eyebrow, and pretends not to know with whom Watson might have spent the night. 

“But he called you, yes?” he asks, in the same, carefully concerned tone. “As soon as he heard?”

Sherlock looks up, eyes narrowed, mouth tight. 

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

Against his better judgement, Mycroft lowers himself into the other armchair. It squeaks unnervingly as he settles himself into it. He ignores the way the sound makes Sherlock smirk.

“I’ve been given a problem to deal with,” he says, “and I’ve been told I need your help.”

He leans forward, offering Sherlock the folder, but Sherlock remains exactly where he is, clutching his violin and bow tighter. 

“I wonder why,” he drawls, ladling on the sarcasm.

“I’d imagine it’s because your ability to unearth and interpret evidence is second to none,” Mycroft replies smoothly. Sherlock is the hardest individual to manipulate Mycroft has ever known, but - as his tolerance of his Earthian flat-mate attests - he’s always been susceptible to flattery.

Sherlock gives a low non-committal grunt at the compliment, but the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction and Mycroft bites back a smile. 

“You will help, won’t you?” he purrs, pressing home his advantage. “I’d be very grateful. Management considers this a case of the utmost importance.”

There’s a split second when Mycroft thinks Sherlock might agree but, all of a sudden, running footsteps sound on the stairs, and John Watson’s voice calls out.

“Sherlock. Sherlock!”

It was only to be expected that the Earthian would come rushing back to the flat, Mycroft supposes. This is its home, after all. Its security. It doesn't necessarily mean anything sinister that Watson's radiating fear as he enters the room, his breathing laboured, his brows lowered and his eyes darting frantically about. And yet, when Watson's gaze falls on Sherlock, the decline in his anxiety is almost palpable. Mycroft’s gloom rises exponentially as a result. This wasn’t supposed to happen: he was assured Watson was safe. According to Stamford, the Earthian has only ever Attached to females.

“I saw it on the telly,” Watson tells Sherlock. “You okay?”

“What? Oh. Yes. Fine.” Sherlock shrugs. “Gas leak. Apparently.”

His reply is so typically aloof and lacking in emotion that Mycroft is almost able to convince himself that his fear of Sherlock reciprocating Watson’s Attachment is absurd. Although, with Sherlock, one can never be sure …

Mycroft turns to the Earthian.

“Sherlock’s business seems to be booming, since you and he became … pals,” he says, leaning heavily on the last word, and tracking Watson’s reaction minutely. But there’s no increase in the Earthian’s heart-rate, no change in its breathing. Mycroft tries again, probing deeper. “What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.”

Just as he did on their first encounter, Watson bridles at the intrusion into his privacy. His eyes harden and his chin comes up. 

“I’m never bored,” he says.

Ooh - defiance! Given the massive gulf between Watson’s power and his own, in other circumstances, Mycroft might find the Earthian’s insolence amusing, but here it’s too obviously like Sherlock’s. If they bond - if they become a unit - that will mean trouble for everyone. 

Especially Mycroft.  
 

________________

   
As the taxi speeds them down Baker Street, past Hyde Park, then Green Park and Buckingham Palace and on to Scotland Yard, the directionless chaos of Sherlock’s past few days begins to settle into a sharp line of purpose. Lestrade has finally found him a case.

Sherlock casts a surreptitious glance at John, sitting beside him on the back seat. He looks serious but eager, all trace of his earlier mockery gone. The Earthian has a remarkable ability to prioritize. Give him a common enemy or a joint endeavour and his obstinate, insubordinate streak instantly subsides. Sherlock makes a mental note to suggest that all Management need do to dissuade Earthians from their intraspecies fighting is present them with an external threat of some kind: a virulent new disease, perhaps, or an asteroid on collision course with their funny little planet.

Lestrade is waiting at Reception when they arrive. He leads the way up to his office. It’s a journey Sherlock has taken dozens of times before but to John it’s new. Sherlock notes how he holds himself straighter, swinging his arms to an almost military beat as he passes the uniformed officers. (Keen to signal kinship with them of some kind.) (His need to belong is marked and yet he’s failed to find himself a long-term mate.) (Is there something wrong with him? Some flaw of mind or body his fellow Earthians find unappealing?) Sherlock can see nothing wrong with John in any way, but Earthians are strange, illogical creatures. Who knows what goes on in their funny little, Attachment-addled heads?

There’s no sign of the odious Anderson as they pass along the Met’s glass-walled corridors, but Sherlock catches a glimpse of Donovan exuding her usual icy hostility. He sweeps past her and into Lestrade’s office.

Lestrade has the puffed up air of someone who knows something others don’t; Sherlock recognizes it instantly from long experience with Mycroft. However, unlike Mycroft, Lestrade is more than willing to share. The explosion in Baker Street wasn’t a gas leak; it was just made to look like one. More interestingly, it was used to deliver a message - and Sherlock’s skin tingles when Lestrade hands over a small envelope and he sees his own name written on it. 

He holds it up to the light. (This is the only thing left intact when 220 Baker Street was destroyed.) (Bohemian stationery. Feminine writing. Expensive pen.) The configuration isn’t instantly useful, but it will be, so Sherlock files it away on his mental hard drive and slits the envelope open with a knife. Inside, there’s an almost flawless replica of Jennifer Wilson’s pink mobile phone. Sherlock’s heart gives a little leap. He’s used to being noticed, but not to being _observed_. Not by anyone outside of Management, at any rate. Whoever’s responsible for this ‘message’, it’s no ordinary Earthian - that much is certain. A second later, it hits him: the explosion in Baker Street was somehow linked to the Nephilim killings.

“That - that’s the phone,” John says, excitement making him stammer. “The pink phone.”

Sherlock switches it on.

“ _You have one new message._ ”

The message consists of four short beeps followed by a longer one, and there’s an attachment too - a picture of a dingy, unfurnished room.

“What the hell are we supposed to make of that?” Lestrade asks, peering at it over Sherlock’s shoulder. “An estate agent’s photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!”

(Earth history, conflict, threats and promises …) Data stirs and tumbles through Sherlock’s mind. (Yellow paint, ancient numbering systems …)

“It’s a warning,” he murmurs as the patterns become clear. “Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips - things like that. Five pips. They’re warning us it’s going to happen again.”

Thrilled, he takes a closer look at the attachment. The message was for him, therefore it only stands to reason that -

“I’ve seen this place before.”

Baker Street. _Again_. Only not just some house across the street this time, but 221 itself. The flat directly under 221B. Whoever was responsible for the explosion, whoever went to the trouble of faking up a phone to look like Jennifer Wilson’s hasn’t just been reading John’s blog, they’ve been close. (Far too close - but they’ll have left evidence of their presence. _Data_.) Sherlock makes quickly for the door, and John and Lestrade hurry along in his wake.

 

Hudson fusses and frets in response to being asked to show them 221C, as if the basement flat were some dark and shameful secret. It’s a relief to get into the place and shut the door on her.

The air inside the flat is chill, smelling faintly of damp, and their footsteps sound hollow on the bare wooden boards. In the middle of the floor lies a pair of used training shoes, set neatly side by side. Sherlock takes a step towards them but John, ever the soldier, stops him.

“He’s a bomber, remember.”

(Ah, yes - the terrorist on the plane. December 2001. Flight 63. Paris to Miami.)

Sherlock drops into a crouch beside the trainers, alive with expectation. Sadly, his examination uncovers no trace of explosives. The trainers are clean. (Ordinary.) ( _Dull_.)

The pink phone rings again. Sherlock puts it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, sexy." 

It's a woman's voice, the flirtatiousness of her words wildly at odds with her wretched tone, and Sherlock’s interest cranks up a gear.

“Who’s this?”

“I’ve sent you,” the woman replies, between tearful gulps, “a little puzzle … just to say ‘hi’.”

Further questioning proves something he already knew: the woman isn’t the orchestrator of this game; she's just a puppet. Her strings are being pulled by someone else, their words forced from her mouth.

“The curtain rises,” Sherlock breathes, his pulse racing.

This is better than he could have hoped.  
 

________________

   
John spends the whole journey from Baker Street to Bart’s trying not to think about what the woman on the phone must be going through. He’s seen the aftermath of bombing; seen bodies torn apart - some of them friends. Not one of them survived.

In Mike’s lab, Sherlock pulls on a pair of forensic gloves and sets about examining the trainers minutely. His focus is absolute - so much so that John doubts he even knows he’s there. Unlike John, who’s so drawn in by Sherlock’s silence and stillness that, before long, _only_ thing he’s aware of. The slope of his shoulders, the texture of his hair. The feather-light sound of him breathing.

Suddenly aware he’s hovering, far too close, John steps away. He clears his throat.

“So who d’you suppose it was?” he asks. “The woman on the phone? The crying woman?”

“Oh, she doesn’t matter,” Sherlock replies, without looking up from his microscope slide. “She’s just a hostage. No leads there.”

John stares at him, aghast and angry. Angry with Sherlock. Angry with himself.

“For god’s sake,” he growls. “I wasn’t thinking about leads!”

“Then you’re not going to be much use to her,” Sherlock tells him, serene, superior and completely rational.

He’s right, John knows. On one level, at least.

“Are-are they trying to trace it,” he asks, determined to show Sherlock he can be practical too, despite having _feelings_. “Trace the call?”

“The bomber’s too smart for that.” Sherlock’s tone implies that much should be obvious - even to an idiot - but before John can respond, Sherlock’s phone beeps and he issues John with a brusque order to get it for him.

The phone isn’t on the desk.

“Jacket,” Sherlock says, sharp and impatient.

The jacket, John realizes with a sinking feeling, that Sherlock is _still wearing_. He hesitates, uncertain whether he wants to get that close to him. No, actually, he’s certain he _doesn’t_ , but equally, he’s afraid that an outright refusal will tell Sherlock far more than John wants him to know, so he takes a breath, bracing himself, and marches over to yank Sherlock’s jacket open and thrust a hand angrily into his inside pocket.

The phone is warm, heated by its closeness to Sherlock's body. John hates it - hates himself for noticing - and he stabs the message open with a vicious finger.

It’s a text from Mycroft, but when John relays this information to Sherlock, Sherlock couldn't care less. In fact, he tells John to delete it, dismissing John's patriotic concerns with a casual, “Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it.” As if this doesn’t matter. As if the potential death of tens - maybe hundreds - of his countrymen is of absolutely no importance. When John presses him, sure there must be some humanity in him somewhere, Sherlock only grows less concerned.

“Look,” he says, “Andrew West stole the missile plans. Tried to sell them. Got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this - why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?”

John’s blood boils. “Try and remember there’s a woman here who might die,” he says, every bit as superior as Sherlock was a few moment ago, although a lot less calm.

Sherlock’s head snaps up. 

“What for?” he demands. “This hospital’s full of people dying, Doctor. Why don’t you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?”

Again, John knows he’s right. Debating with Sherlock feels a bit like driving a car at high speed: John keeps having to slam the brakes on and it’s giving him whiplash. Fortunately he’s saved from having to apologize or admit defeat by the arrival of Mike’s assistant, Molly.

This time, she's got a thin, dark-haired bloke in tow. He seems terribly nervous as she flutters around Sherlock, and even more nervous when she introduces them to each other. John cringes - for Molly and her friend, but mostly for himself because this is what infatuation looks like from the outside, and it's far from dignified. Molly's simpering makes her seem silly, and Jim's skittish flirting is just plain laughable. John hopes to God he comes across as far cooler than that. At least he's had the balls to criticize Sherlock to his face. It doesn't matter that it was mistakenly: he doesn't ever want Sherlock to think him as supine as Molly.

As she chatters on, Sherlock continues to stare down his microscope, completely ignoring her, but eventually she manages to get through to him - for all the good it does her. He eyes her boyfriend sideways, and tosses out a single word.

“Gay.”

To be honest, John was just thinking much the same thing - Jim all but shoved him aside to get closer to Sherlock and has been circling ever since, black eyes devouring him - but when Molly flinches, John’s right back to being angry with Sherlock, outraged that he can be so utterly bloody insensitive.

When Jim leaves, it only gets worse, because it turns out that Sherlock’s assessment of Jim’s sexuality wasn’t just something he deduced, but in fact came far more concrete evidence: Jim slipped Sherlock his phone number. It hurts somewhere deep in John’s chest to watch how casually Sherlock tells Molly this. God knows, he can be indifferent - not to mention arrogant and rude - but until now John’s never thought him of him as cruel. Not that Sherlock sees it that way, of course. _He_ insists he was actually been being kind. 

But John knows his disapproval must have hit home when Sherlock challenges him to tease out some useful information from the training shoes: they both know John's going to make a hash of it. This is Sherlock getting his own back.

John does his best. Predictably, it’s not good enough.

“You missed everything of importance,” Sherlock says, like the cat that got the cream, and promptly rattles off a wealth of detail, making seemingly impossible connections. The shoes belonged to a child. A child with eczema. They’re not retro but original. Twenty years old but kept looking like new. John would love to be sullen about it but he can’t help being impressed. Then again, he’s never denied Sherlock’s clever. He just wishes he could be a bit more human.

"So," Sherlock concludes, "the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind.”

"What happened to _him_?" John asks.

"Something bad," Sherlock says. “He loved those shoes, remember. He’d never leave them filthy. Wouldn’t leave them - _go_ \- unless he had to. So, a child with big feet …”

Suddenly, he freezes and his face takes on a far-away look.

" _Oh_."

The hairs on the back of John’s neck lift. 

“What?” he asks, rapt. Sometimes Sherlock’s deductive powers seem positively unearthly.

“Carl Powers.” Sherlock’s voice is soft, almost as if he’s talking in his sleep.

“Sorry, “ John stammers. “Who?”

“Carl Powers, John.”

“What is it?" John asks, faintly alarmed. Sherlock hasn’t turned, scarcely seems to be breathing.

Slowly, Sherlock exhales. 

“It’s where I began."  
 

________________

   
Nothing in Mycroft’s existence - nor his pre-mission research - has prepared him for the agonizing reality of Earthian dentistry. He skimmed the subject, of course, but the data to which he had access was pure science, where words like ‘nerves’ and ‘pain’ read as innocuous, abstract concepts. He knows differently now. If he’d thought for one moment that the Earthian diet would wreak such havoc on his teeth, he’d have been more thorough - although he refuses to feel guilty about this oversight: he must be the first Angel in history to have been fitted with a crown.

He chose his practitioner carefully, sought references and checked out the man’s credentials online. Former patients spoke of him with both reverence and gratitude. An NHS evaluation rated him ‘outstanding’. Mycroft pokes at his ravaged molar with a half-numbed tongue and shudders. God only knows what the man’s competitors are like.

He re-enters his office building in a daze, head swimming with pain and analgesics. It’s only the knowledge - imparted via text message from his secretary during one of the more grisly phases of his dental procedure - that John Watson’s awaiting him inside that prevents his condition being a wholly wretched one. He’ll probe the Earthian’s mind as ruthlessly as Dr McEwan has just probed his root canal and, if necessary, eradicate the creature from Sherlock’s life every bit as brutally.

Mycroft's progress up to his office is impeded by clerks wishing to burden him with yet more files about the Korean elections but eventually he manages to close his office door behind him.

Sherlock’s Earthian is sitting neatly in the chair before his desk, dressed rather formally for one so fond of woollens. A mark of respect which does it some credit.

“John,” Mycroft says by way of greeting. “How nice. I was hoping you wouldn’t be long. How can I help you?”

Immediately, the creature gets to its feet in another show of deference. Watson clearly knows his place and how to stick to it. It’s really quite charming - though _too_ charming where Sherlock’s concerned. Mycroft signals him to sit without deigning to look at him and places the Korean files on his desk.

Watson shuffles noisily back into the seat and clear his throat. 

“Um, well, I was wanting to … uh, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans. The missile plans.”

"Did he?" 

“Yes.” The Earthian smiles back, nervous and attempting to ingratiate himself. “He’s investigating now. He’s - uh - investigating away.”

It’s such a patent lie, Mycroft would laugh, were his jaw less painful. He settles for answering Watson’s questions instead. It seems only fair: Watson’s whole manner is answering his. Everything about the Earthian screams devotion to Sherlock, a devotion Sherlock has been weak enough - vain enough - to encourage. The bond Watson feels towards Sherlock will only strengthen; it may even come to be reciprocated, if it’s allowed to continue. Sherlock’s so certain he’s immune to Attachment and feelings, he won’t even notice it happening, until it’s too late.

It’s clearly time for Mycroft to intervene.  
 

________________

   
As Sherlock gazes at his reflection in the mirror above the fire, his features slowly soften. His cheekbones become less pronounced, his gaze less fierce and the fine lines around his eyes and mouth melt smoothly away. Freckles sprout, just a few, and dust the bridge of his nose. His hair - cut to Mycroft's specifications, not his own - grows tidy, short.

He's a boy again - just eleven years old. He can still remember what it was like. How no-one saw him; how no-one listened. 

Across the galaxy, another boy, just two years older, is dead - drowned in a swimming pool on the very day his fellow Earthians were supposed to sit up and take notice of him. They didn't. All they saw was his tragic death. On Heaven, Sherlock saw much, much more.

"Carl Powers," he whispers to his older self. "It's where I began."

Hair unruly and expression impatient, his older self looks back. 

"You're missing something," it scolds. "Try using your brain and _think_."

Sherlock paces to the boarded-up windows and back, mind racing as he ransacks the attic of his mind palace. Something is stirring, amongst the dust, but the room is randomly assembled - the work of a kid.

"I was just a child," he mutters, annoyed at himself, "and _light years_ away."

From the mirror, his reflection gives him a searching look. "And yet ..?"

"And yet _what_?" Sherlock cries.

"And yet here you are, on Earth, examining the very training shoes Carl Powers left behind when he died. How did that happen?"

"Coincidence?"

"Except ..?"

"Except there's no such thing. Coincidences are pointers. Used to steer lesser beings like Earthians out of their muddled thinking and towards the truth ... _Oh!_ "

His reflection nods. " 'Oh', indeed. For him to know of your interest in Carl Powers, our bomber has to be someone from Heaven."

 

Someone from Heaven who used a decidedly Earthian weapon, Sherlock soon discovers. Whoever killed Carl Powers did it by making him _ill_. Sherlock experiences a shiver of both revulsion and relief. Carl Powers’ killer wasn’t an Angel. No Angel would never stoop so low. Not even Mycroft.

Seated at his kitchen microscope, Sherlock tries to ignore Hudson as she tinkers about noisily with trays and crockery. He can't wait for John to come home. He needs an audience capable of understanding his discovery.

After what seems like hours, the front door clicks open and Sherlock hears John’s footstep on the stairs. He quickly bends over his microscope again and peers down the eyepiece.

“Poison,” he declares the moment the dimming of the light filtering in from the living room announces John’s presence in the doorway.

“What you going on about?” Hudson clucks, unimpressed, but John draws nearer and Sherlock slaps both hands down hard on the table beside the microscope, for dramatic effect.

“Clostridium botulinum!” he cries. “It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet.” 

It works: he looks up to find John agape.

“Carl Powers!” Sherlock cries, with all the theatricality he can muster. No-one has ever stared at him like John. Others have stared out of disapproval or disgust, but John stares as though Sherlock were the most remarkable being he’s ever seen. 

However John’s response isn’t quite what Sherlock was hoping for. (Applause would have been nice; a word or two of admiration).

“Oh. Wait. Are you saying he was murdered?”

Sherlock rises from his chair and crosses the kitchen to where he’s hung the ancient training shoes above the sink. Obligingly, John follows.

“Remember the shoelaces?” Sherlock asks. “The boy suffered from eczema. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns.”

“What?” John seems torn. He wants to believe, to trust - Sherlock can see it in his eyes - but something’s holding him back. Under that soft brown jacket with its too-long sleeves, his body is stiff, traces of resistance clinging to his muscles. He's still angry about something. “How-how come the autopsy didn’t pick that up?”

Ah, Earthians! They invest so much faith in science and yet they barely understand it.

“It’s virtually undetectable,” Sherlock explains. “Nobody would have been looking for it.”

Breath bated, John’s almost ready to fall. One little tug is all it will take - one moment of proof that his instinct to believe is a good one - and then Sherlock will have him.

He goes back to his laptop, calls up his website and starts typing.

_FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Power (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker Street._

John edges nearer, hands clasped together behind his back, his front open and exposed. It's the same stance he adopted back at Roland Kerr Further Education College, when he realized Sherlock knew he was the one who had killed the cabbie. Just as it did then, it makes something warm blossom in Sherlock’s chest. 

He's _won_.

A moment later, the pink phone rings. Sherlock switches it to speaker, so that John can hear too. It's the hostage. She's crying.

“Well done, you,” she sobs. “Come and get me.”

John’s posture changes immediately - from diffident to caring - and his body strains towards the phone. In a way, it’s interesting, this need he has to protect not only the people he knows and cares about, but complete strangers too. In another way, it’s oddly galling. Sherlock leans over the phone to claim it from him.

“Where are you?” he asks the woman. “Tell us where you are.”

Between snivelling and swallowing, the Earthian manages to give a location of sorts. John grabs a pen and writes it down. When he’s done, and Sherlock has assured the woman help is on its way, John looks up at him, wide-eyed.

“Extraordinary,” he breathes, with a slow shake of his head.

Sherlock takes a step closer, heart beating expectantly. “What is?” he asks.

John’s smile is wide, and slow, and perfect. 

“You are," he says, and the warmth in Sherlock's chest grows warmer still.


	7. One Enormous Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I asked you to drive a wedge between my brother and his flat-mate,” Mycroft reminds him. “To get John Watson out of his life. Not go around murdering the elderly and the infirm!”_
> 
> _“All part of the service,” Moriarty grins, twisting around in his seat to look Mycroft in the eye. “Besides, can’t you just feel it already? The atmosphere between the two of them? Sherlock must’ve been absolutely furious at having lost my little game, and Johnny-boy ... well, he'll have been weeping over the loss of a human life, won't he? How much sympathy d’you think Sherlock will have spared one dead, defective, old Earthian? How much sympathy d’you think he’ll have spared the doctor?”_
> 
> _A shiver of fear goes up Mycroft’s spine: the picture Moriarty is painting is an all too credible one, and yet the Angel has only met Sherlock and Watson once. How can he possibly have such insight? Perhaps Mycroft has told him too much ..._

The smiling at one another goes on, and on. Too long for John to feel entirely comfortable with it. Not that it’s unpleasant. Far from it. In his book, there are few things as beautiful as one of Sherlock’s smiles, and he’s always been proud of how easily he seems to inspire them. But this one is different. They’re standing too close to each other, for a start - and they’re far too still. John tries telling himself it’s just that he’s noticing the difference between the frantic dashing about of the past day and the post-case lull, but it doesn’t work. Not when Sherlock’s gaze keeps drifting from his eyes to his mouth like that. Not when it lingers there. Not when John knows he’s looking at Sherlock in the exact same way: as if they’re about to kiss.

John takes a step back. 

“Okay, this is getting weird now,” he says.

Sherlock’s eyes lift to meet John’s again. He’s still smiling. “Weird? How?”

John grimaces, rolls his shoulders. “Well, you know. You and me. Us. Just, um, standing here, not talking and, um-”

“Sometimes I don’t talk for days,” Sherlock murmurs, and his gaze is right back on John’s lips again.

John’s throat tightens and his heart thumps. Far too much of his blood supply has decided to rush south and more’s on its way. Sherlock might as well have added ‘Sometimes I’m more interested in shagging’ - and in that throaty rumble of his too - for all the success John is having in keeping his body under control. This is getting dangerous, he knows. He only wishes he didn’t find danger so bloody thrilling-

“Would you boys like a pot of tea?”

Mrs Hudson’s question makes John jump. He’d completely forgotten she was there, and heat washes over him at the thought of what a tit he might have made of himself, right in front of her.

“That would be, um … It would be-” he stutters, struggling for words.

“Pointless,” Sherlock snaps, over him. “John doesn’t want tea, and neither do I. And I thought you _weren’t_ my housekeeper?”

Mrs Hudson glares. 

“There’s no need to be rude, young man,” she says, wagging a finger.

Sherlock sweeps past her. “I’m going for a shower,” he says. “And then I'm going to bed.”

There’s a charged silence as he stalks off - Mrs Hudson quietly seething, and John trying not to think about the fact that Sherlock will soon be peeling off all his clothes, mere feet away. They both start a little when the bathroom door bangs shut.

“I don’t know how you put up with him,” Mrs Hudson sighs. “You must have the patience of a saint, John.”

He shrugs. “Well, I’m no angel either.”

Mrs Hudson laughs and pats his arm. 

“In the circumstances, I’d say that’s just as well!” she says, and bustles off.

Left alone in the kitchen, John can’t help hearing the gush of water from the shower. Can’t help picturing Sherlock under it - wet and naked, a bar of soap in hand, as he works up a dense, sweet-smelling lather over all that perfect, pale skin.

Damn it. John needs a distraction.

The kitchen table is scattered with paper: photographs, a scrapbook and a pile of scribbled notes. John selects the scrapbook and starts leafing through.

The first few pages consist entirely of newspaper cuttings: reports of Carl Powers’ tragic death; interviews with his mother and other relatives. It’s miserable stuff and John skims through it quickly, but a single, handwritten sheet of paper makes him pause. The writing, though clearly that of a child, bears such a striking resemblance to Sherlock’s neat but impatient script that John pulls it from the protective plastic pocket it’s been placed in for a closer look.

Carl Powers. John notices the name immediately, even though it’s right at the bottom of the page. Above it, there are two boxes - one filled in, one empty. There's angry row of question marks about this one and a larger, furious exclamation mark. Backtracking up the page, John finds names, dates of births, deaths, and marriages. A lopsided family tree. Vast amounts of detail on one side, transcribed in confident strokes from a black fountain pen; hesitant, pencil scribbles on the other. John stares at it all in something like awe: this is a glimpse of what Sherlock was like as a boy, Sherlock taking his first steps towards becoming the genius detective he is today. Reluctantly, John slips the sheet back into its pocket and closes the scrapbook again, fingers lingering fondly over the stiff, grey cover for a moment before he turns and makes his way upstairs.

 

The next morning is a hectic one, even by Sherlock’s standards. They're out of the house almost as soon as John makes it down from his room - before he's even had so much as a cup of tea, let alone breakfast - and things get no slower after that. Right when Sherlock and Lestrade finish tying up the loose ends of the Carl Powers case, Sherlock's phone rings with another picture clue - an abandoned car, this time - and more Greenwich pips. John's gut churns: somewhere else in London, some other poor sod is covered with Semtex.

With amazing speed, the Met’s backroom boys track the car down to a bit of waste ground south of the river, behind a row of abandoned warehouses. Not long afterwards, John is following Sherlock across a stretch of rain-lashed tarmac, police lights flashing garishly against the wet, grey backdrop.

Lestrade is waiting for them.

“The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford,” he says. “Banker of some kind. City boy. Paid in cash. Told his wife he was going away on a business trip but he never arrived.”

Sherlock's eyes light up, his pace becomes faster, and John finds himself trailing along behind him, wondering how he could ever have thought something more was developing between them last night.

Sergeant Donovan falls into step at his side.

“You’re still hanging round him,” she says - which is far too much like the sad truth of it for John’s liking. “Opposites attract, I suppose. You should get yourself a hobby. Stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer.”

It’s on the tip of John's tongue to tell her that attraction's got nothing to do with it - that he's got a girlfriend, for Christ’s sake - but he thinks better of it. To people like Sally Donovan, any protesting at all will always be Protesting Too Much. 

And it would sound pretty hollow to his own ears, too.

When Lestrade's finished filling Sherlock in, Sherlock makes his way over to the only other civilian on the scene - a sad-faced woman in business wear. John hurries to follow. The woman is Mrs Monkford, and John knows all too well what Sherlock can be like.

Except, apparently, he _doesn't_ \- because Sherlock not only claims to be a friend of her husband but also cries real tears in order to convince her. John really hadn’t thought he’d go _that_ far. It’s shocking to witness how easily he lies, how shamelessly and expertly he feigns emotion. John thinks about last night again and wonders if Sherlock was consciously toying with him. The possibility doesn’t do much for his mood.

“Why did you lie to her?” he demands, when Sherlock’s little charade is over, and they’re walking away.

“People don’t like telling you things,” Sherlock replies, brushing the fake tears from his eyes. “But they love to contradict you.”

 _People_ , John notices. _They_. The way Sherlock talks, it’s as if he doesn’t regard himself as one of the human race. Well, of course he doesn't. He thinks he's better than.

“Past tense - did you notice?” Sherlock goes on, positively gleeful. “I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in. Bit premature. They’ve only just found the car.”

Put like that, John’s forced to swallow down his annoyance. Just because Sherlock's a manipulative big-head, it doesn't mean the man’s not utterly brilliant.

“You think she murdered her husband?” he asks.

Sherlock's answer is frustratingly vague: all he'll say is that Mrs Monkford knows more than she’s admitting and it leaves John dangling, wanting - _needing_ \- to know more.  
 

________________

   
Ewart - the owner of Janus Cars - is such an obvious liar that tricking him into opening up his wallet, thereby revealing the Colombian banknotes it hides, gives Sherlock no satisfaction. Impressing John with this information, on the other hand, is very satisfying indeed, and as Sherlock watches the astonished smile blossom on his face, he doubts even a commendation from Management would feel as good.  
 

________________

   
As predicted - and in direct contravention of Section 238 of the Highway Code - the unmarked police car pulls up on the double red lines outside Barclays on the Edgeware Road and Lestrade jumps out, cash card already in hand. The instant it's in the ATM, Mycroft throws a switch and begins typing.

_There is a car behind you: tell your driver to go on without you and get into it._

Lestrade’s head snaps up from the cash machine and he looks around, rolling his eyes in weary resignation when he spots Mycroft’s Jaguar. He leans in through the window of his own car and a moment later, it’s driving off whilst Lestrade advances, shoulders slumped, in Mycroft’s direction.

Mycroft opens the door and pats the seat beside him. “Get in, Gregory. I need a word.”

Obediently, Lestrade slides across the black leather. There’s a smell of grease clinging to him - an unpleasant echo of the chips and burgers he seems to live on. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Mycroft shifts further away.

“What’s this about?” Lestrade grumbles, fastening his seatbelt as the car pulls away from the kerb. “I was on my way to see your brother.”

Mycroft laces his gloved fingers together and smiles pleasantly. “I just want a little chat. About John Watson.”

Lestrade frowns. “Yeah? What about him?”

“He’s a dependable sort of fellow, isn’t he? All Queen and Country. Family values.”

“S’pose he is … yeah.” Lestrade’s response holds a note of suspicion. Well, he _is_ a policeman these days.

“Would you say he’s been a good influence on my brother?”

Lestrade purses his lips, nods. “Yeah. Sherlock’s been marginally less of a tosser since he moved in.”

“And why do you think that is?” Mycroft asks, deliberately casual. He feigns interest in the weave of his trousers.

“Well, I suppose it's cuz John’s a good bloke. A decent human being, you know? And he’s got balls enough to let Sherlock know when he’s being insuff- … I mean, when he’s coming across as inhuman.”

Mycroft nods. “Good. That’s good, isn’t it? And how would you describe Watson's opinion of Sherlock?”

“Well, he hasn't moved out yet, so I'd say he must like him. Sherlock can't be easy to live with.”

“Indeed. So, to the best of your knowledge, I can rest easily in my bed knowing my little brother is safe with his pet Earthian.”

Lestrade nods. “Absolutely. From what I’ve seen, John would pretty much do anything for him - despite the fact Sherlock can be an aggravating sod. Been a good friend to him too - as well as being a civilizing influence, and God knows, he needed that.”

Mycroft nods again, maintaining an outward appearance of calm. They’re moving onto more dangerous ground now, and Lestrade must suspect nothing. Mycroft turns his head to gaze out of the window. Lestrade’s face is reflected in the glass, making his responses easy to monitor.

“And what about Sherlock?” Mycroft asks. “Do you think he likes Watson? Can I be certain he'll keep him around long enough to conclude his experiment? Or is he likely to throw him out on the street some time in the near future and demand I find a replacement?”

Laughing, Lestrade leans back in the seat, and finally relaxes. “I’d say you’re safe there, Mycroft. No worries on that score. He takes him with him everywhere. Wouldn't do that if Watson got on his nerves, would he? I mean, it’s not like he suffers fools gladly.”

Mycroft concentrates on keeping his breathing even. It’s just as he feared. He’d hoped to be proved wrong; that, having more frequent contact with Sherlock, Lestrade might have noticed signs of friction between him and John that he himself has had no opportunity to observe. This is really most unfortunate. Mycroft has nothing against Watson personally, but the Earthian will have to go.

He taps the back of his driver’s seat, signalling it's time the car was brought to a halt. “Your stop, I think, Gregory. 221B Baker Street."

Lestrade scans the street, almost as if he was expecting to be somewhere else. He frowns. "Never thought I’d be taxied about by the great Mycroft Holmes," he mutters, opening the door.

Mycroft laughs gaily. "Oh, don't worry! I won't be making a habit of it. And you will be doing something for me in return."

"Yeah?"

"That angel Sebastian Wilkes is watching," Mycroft says, examining his nails, as if it were a matter of almost no consequence. "James Moriarty. I want to meet him."  
 

________________

   
John watches, quietly entranced, as Sherlock sets about testing the blood sample he took from Monkford’s car. He takes a bottle from a small, brown bag, opens it and draws up a little of the fluid inside with a pipette. He’s enthralling like this - hands, fingers and face unnaturally beautiful - and, despite Sarah, despite knowing Sherlock’s dangerous in all sorts of ways, John experiences an undeniable stab of desire. _Sexual_ desire. He looks away and thinks determinedly about the way Sarah’s dressing gown clings to the curve of her hips, and how it cups the swell of her breasts.

Even so, it’s relief when, a few minutes later, they’re on the move again and John has other things to think about. He follows as Sherlock strides into the police car pound, radiating victory with every step.

“How much blood was on that seat, would you say?” Sherlock asks Lestrade, glancing around the interior of Monkford’s hired car.

Lestrade shrugs. “About a pint.”

“Not ‘about’,” Sherlock corrects. “ _Exactly_ a pint. The blood’s definitely Ian Monkford’s but it’s been frozen.”

Lestrade is nonplussed. “Frozen?”

With John and Lestrade hanging onto his every word now, Sherlock seems to grow taller. His coat and hair seem blacker, his skin more pale. And his eyes ... God, his eyes! They're so dazzling, John almost loses track of what he's saying.

" ... clear signs ... Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago ... spread on the seats ... The clue's in the name ... If you’ve got any kind of a problem – money troubles, bad marriage, whatever – Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble – financial, at a guess: he’s a banker. Couldn’t see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver’s seat ..."

With a valiant effort his old commanding officer would have been proud of, John pulls himself together enough to ask a pertinent question.

"So where’s Monkford now?"

"Colombia,” Sherlock declares and goes on to explain everything: the Colombian banknote in Ewart's wallet, the tan line at his wrist, the itching where he'd been vaccinated against hepatitis. It all points to Monkford having faked his death, allowing his wife to cash in his life insurance and split the proceeds with Janus Cars.

His reasoning is brilliant - naturally - but for a moment, it gives John pause. 

What kind of a mind must Sherlock have to be capable of fathoming so much self-serving darkness?  
 

________________

   
Sherlock rises early, ignoring his body’s ever-increasing need for the recuperative properties of sleep in favour of checking his phone every five minutes. This all started with _five_ pips. So far he’s only solved two puzzles. There will be more, and he's eager to get started on them.

John comes down from his room just before eight. He looks dreadful, Sherlock notices with alarm. If John develops some serious ailment - if he _dies_ \- replacing him will waste valuable time. It will also be unutterably tedious: Sherlock really can't be expected to get used to another Earthian.

"Are you ill?" he asks sharply, getting up from his chair to examine John properly.

The Earthian is less than grateful for this display of concern, and when Sherlock places his hands under John’s jaw to tilt his face up for a closer look at his eyes, simultaneously using the tips of his fingers to palpate John's sub-mandibular glands for signs of swelling, he jerks away from him with a hostile growl.

“Get off me. I'm fine. Hungry, that’s all.”

Sherlock drops his hands. He feels ... unpleasant. _Awkward_. He should have realized. To function properly, Earthians need food at regular intervals. John has been angry and impatient _because he's been hungry_.

Sherlock beams. “Get your coat. We'll go out. For breakfast.”

John blinks but doesn’t move. “You what?”

“We'll go out for breakfast.”

Sherlock takes John’s coat from the back of his chair and bundles him into it.

“Come on, John,” he says, steering him towards the door. “Pick your feet up.”

 

As soon as they go in through the steamed-up glass doors, Sherlock knows he’s chosen well. Betty’s Café on Crawford Street is perfect. John's face lights up as soon as the thick smell of fried food hits him; by the time he’s read the menu, he’s practically glowing. He opts for strong tea and a fry-up, and starts shovelling the food into his mouth the moment he gets it over to one of the cheap, Formica-topped tables. Sherlock watches him for a moment, noting the way John’s body relaxes as he chews, the way the colour returns to his cheeks.

“Feeling better?” he asks, when John glances up.

John grunts around his mouthful of food and swallows. 

“You realize we’ve hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?” He loads his fork again, still hungry, but sated enough to pause, mid-chew, and frown. “Has it occurred to you-”

“Probably,” Sherlock says, without thinking. He’s only stating the truth, but immediately realizes John might interpret it as arrogance. He drops his gaze, and drums his fingers on the tabletop, feeling awkward again.

But there’s no criticism, nor even a hint of annoyance in John’s voice as he continues. 

“No, has it occurred to you that the bomber’s playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid’s shoes … It’s all meant for you.”

Sherlock can’t help smiling. He’s used to being the observant one, the one who notices things whilst others blunder around in the bubble of their own little worlds. Being observed by John is strangely flattering. It also has a very pleasant, if unexpected, effect on Sherlock's insides. 

“Yes,” he says. “I know.”

“Is it him, then? Moriarty?” John asks, proving he’s not only been observing but thinking too. He really is quite remarkable - many Angels would struggle to match him - but there’s something else as well. A sense that John is saying he's ready to do whatever’s asked of him, whatever’s needed, and Sherlock experiences a little swell of pride. When he chose John, he chose exceptionally well.

Regrettably, there's no time for self-congratulation: the pink phone suddenly beeps on the table between them. Another message. Three pips and a photograph of an entirely unexceptional, middle-aged Earthian female.

“That could be anybody,” Sherlock complains but John mutters something about watching too much telly and rises from his seat. He goes over the serving counter and switches on the café’s TV. 

Sherlock feels his eyes widen in surprise: there on the screen is the same female Earthian face, only now it's talking and in motion. (John’s amazing! A fount of the most esoteric, Earth-specific information.)

The pink phone rings again.

“This one is a bit … defective," a female says, in a voice that’s breathless and shaky with age. "Sorry. She’s blind. This is … a funny one. I’ll give you twelve hours.”

 _This one_ … The word are the bomber’s, not the old woman’s. (The bomber thinks of his victims as different. As _alien_.) For a moment, Sherlock freezes, enjoying the thrill that's racing up his spine. He was right! The bomber’s not an Earthian; he's an _Angel_. It’s all Sherlock can do not to clap his hands in glee. The stakes in this game have just got much, much higher.

John returns to the table, his expression grave (Of course. John doesn't consider this a game at all) and Sherlock quickly ensures his own expression is equally grim.

“Why are you doing this?” he says into the phone.

“I like …," the old woman replies, her voice cracked with fear, "to watch you … dance.”  
 

________________

   
The sky is grey, threatening rain, as John makes his way down the avenue of red-brick detached houses. He’s been sent to interview Connie Prince’s brother and he’s dreading it. He wouldn’t be here at all, if Sherlock hadn’t insisted he’s the best man for the job. Given their only other option is Sherlock himself, John has to agree - even if dealing with the recently bereaved always leaves him feeling inadequate and sad.

John’s knock is answered by a man in his early thirties - dark-haired, dark-eyed and very attractive. Objectively speaking, that is. Behind him stands an older man who John guesses must be Kenny Prince; he's as twitchy and talkative as the younger man is still and silent.

John is led in through a hallway that looks like something from a magazine into an equally magazine-like living room. He’s no expert on home furnishing, but he can tell the difference between cheap and expensive, and everything here - from the plush carpets and plump sofa to the marble fireplace and antique display cabinet - is very obviously expensive and new, with the exception of Kenny Prince himself. He looks old, and sad, and ridiculous in his bright purple shirt. A comparison with Sherlock’s purple shirt springs unbidden into John’s mind. The way it hugs his torso, the way the buttons strain across his chest ...

Without waiting to be asked, John sits down quickly, prompting the hairless, grey-skinned cat occupying the other side of Prince's immaculate sofa to give a yowl of disapproval, and it comes over to trample John’s thighs with unsheathed claws. The little pin-prick pains make him wince and he lifts the cat gingerly from his lap to set it down on the other cushion again. A minute later, it's back; trampling him and purring.

Meanwhile Prince is ostentatiously dabbing at the corner of his eye with a neatly ironed handkerchief. He sniffs a couple of times, then stands taller - a self-conscious study in brave stoicism. 

“Where would you like me to begin?” he asks.

“At the beginning?” John says, not really caring. He’s only here to poke around and get data for Sherlock. 

It’s all the excuse Kenny Prince needs to launch into a long and detailed family history, one which casts him as the overlooked and misunderstood older sibling of a much loved but difficult younger sister who had more than her fair share of luck in life. John's all too aware of what that feels like, although Kenny insists he was proud of _his_ sister.

“It’s such a horrible irony that this should have happened when we’d grown close again," he says, with a mournful look at his sister's photograph. “And tetanus, of all things! How often does that happen?”

“It’s more common than people think,” John replies, automatically. “The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left un-” 

He breaks off abruptly: Kenny has just flopped down onto the sofa beside him, far too close for comfort. 

“-untreated.” John knows he shouldn’t be talking about medical matters when he’s posing as a reporter, but he can’t seem to stop himself babbling. Not with Kenny staring at him like a half-starved wolf.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do now,” Kenny says, leaning in closer still and making things very much worse.

“Right,” John mutters, squirming. This shouldn’t be happening. Why is it happening? Why is Kenny coming on to him?

“I mean,” Kenny goes on, his eyes boring into John’s, “she’s left me this place, which is lovely. But it’s not the same without her.”

“Th-that’s why my paper, um -” John shifts on a the sofa cushion. Space. He needs space. He can smell the violet-sweet smell of Kenny’s skin now, feel the heat of the thigh pressed against his, and there’s no space. John grits his teeth and goes on. “- why my paper wants me to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse’s mouth. You sure it’s not too soon?”

He bloody well hopes it is, but Kenny continues to fix John with that peculiarly intense - almost intimate - gaze.

“No,” he says, firmly. “You … fire away.”

It’s a ghastly situation, but at least it's making something very clear: whatever strange responses John's been having to Sherlock, they don't mean John's gay. Kenny Prince is all but making overt advances, and John is feeling nothing. Not even the tiniest flicker of interest. Nothing. Unless you count an overwhelming urge to run away like the cat's doing. Sadly, John doesn’t have that option. All he can do is fidget. Cross his legs; uncross them. Rub the side of his nose ...

All of a sudden, his focus shifts. He can smell something on his fingertips - something that must have come from the cat. It’s disinfectant. Something has been deliberately scrubbed from the cat's claws ... John clenches a fist in excitement. This is exactly the kind of thing Sherlock needs. And exactly what John needs too because it's sure to bring Sherlock here running, and John won't have to deal with Kenny Prince alone any more. He jumps up from the sofa and pulls out his phone.

The pleasure he feels at the sound of Sherlock’s voice is almost visceral, but the wait for his arrival goes on far too long, and John spends a lot of it working out how he’s going to fend Prince off physically, if he has to.

But even bad things come to an end and, eventually, Sherlock comes striding in, all darkness and energy in the pale, still room, and John’s heart flips over at the sight of him.

In his role as a local newspaper photographer, Sherlock is far politer than his real self and instead of firing off unflattering deductions about the state of Prince’s health and love life, he actually shakes hands with him.

Prince holds on much longer than he should. It brings out John’s urge to protect.

“Shall we, er …” he suggests, gesturing Sherlock away from Prince with a jerk of his head.

Sherlock responds immediately. He moves closer to John, the swirl of his coat momentarily encircling them both.

“You were right,” John says in an undertone. “The bacteria got into her another way.”

“Oh, yes?” Sherlock’s voice is pitched low enough to make the air between them vibrate, but there’s a touch of incredulity in it as he digs around in the camera bag he’s brought with him.

John decides to take Sherlock’s scepticism as a challenge, and when Kenny Prince calls for the attention of Sherlock’s camera - cat photogenically arranged in his arms - John directs Sherlock to fire the flash directly into Prince's eyes, so that he can get a proper sniff of the cat’s claws. 

The smell is _definitely_ disinfectant.

“I think we’ve got what we came for,” John says, with a pointed look at Sherlock. “Come on. We’ve got deadlines.”

Sherlock follows him out of the house without a word - which is a surprise, but a distinctly heartening one. It feels good to be the one in control for a change - the one who knows the answers, and John feels pretty good as he leads Sherlock back up the suburban avenue.

“You think it was the cat," Sherlock says, his voice warm with amusement. "It wasn’t the cat.”

For a moment John's confidence falters but he sticks to his guns. Then Sherlock - damn him - explains that Raoul is the killer.

"Wait a second," John protests. "What about the disinfectant, then? On the cat’s claws?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor. Scrubbed to within an inch of its life. _You_ smell of disinfectant now. The cat doesn’t come into it.”

John finds the notion that Sherlock can smell him at once disturbing and vaguely arousing. To think he'd notice something so intimate … John plucks at his coat, and sniffs, taking refuge in disbelief, because he _cannot_ let him self believe that Sherlock ever thinks of him in that way.

“Hope we can get a cab from here,” Sherlock says, turning briskly towards the main road and, once again, John has to hurry to keep up.  
 

________________

   
Back at Baker Street, John waits for Sherlock to collate his data into a folder, and then they’re off to Scotland Yard again. They go straight up to Lestrade’s office where Sherlock advances on Lestrade, holding his folder aloft like a trophy.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer,” he says. “Kenny Prince's houseboy."

In any sane world, this announcement would immediately result in action, and John’s horrified when it doesn’t. He can’t understand why Sherlock hasn’t put his findings up on his blog already: it’s not as if he normally pays Lestrade the courtesy of keeping him in the picture. Nor can he understand why Lestrade doesn’t instantly put uniformed officers on standby to go to the old lady’s aid. When it seems Sherlock’s more interested in showing off, John blood starts to boil. The first priority of anyone human would be to spare a frail, blind, old woman further misery! Sherlock knew - he bloody well knew hours ago that de Santos was the murderer, but he hasn’t told the bomber that because he thinks scoring points off Lestrade is more important!

When Sherlock goes to follow Lestrade into his office, John can stand it no longer, and steps out in front of him, blocking his path.

“How long have you known?” he demands, barely containing his anger.

“Well, this one was quite simple, actually. And, like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake,” Sherlock says with a modest shrug. Because, of _course_ the dickhead assumes John's simply impressed with the speed of his thinking. 

Again, he tries to move towards Lestrade’s office, still not getting it. John stops him a second time.

“The hostage," he says, close to shaking with rage now. "The old woman. She’s been there all this time.”

Sherlock leans in closer, his breath warm on John’s face. 

“I knew I could save her,” he says, earnestly, as if he actually cares what John thinks. 

John blinks. It’s confusing. Flattering. And he hates that it makes him forget - if only for a moment - that what Sherlock deserves is a solid smack in the face.

Trust Sherlock to remind him.

“I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours,” he says. “I solved the case quickly. That gave me time to get on with things. Don’t you see? We’re one up on him!”

All John can do is stare at him, speechless. How is John supposed to argue with logic like that? It would be like trying to out-reason Spock.

Sherlock pushes past into Lestrade’s office and takes up possession of the table and chair. As soon as he’s typed up his deductions on his website, the pink phone rings. All’s well that ends well, John thinks wearily.

But something is wrong. John can see it on Sherlock's face; hear it in his voice.

“No, no, no, no. Tell me nothing about him. _Nothing_.”

There’s a moment of silence. Sherlock frowns.

“Hello?”

John sees him go very still, almost as if he’s been struck but hasn't yet registered the blow. Then he slumps back in the chair, grim-faced.

“What’s happened?” John asks, praying the answer’s not what he fears.

Sherlock’s lips press together and quiver, making him look so much like a kid on the verge of tears that John’s hand moves of its own accord to offer comfort. He catches himself just in time. Sherlock would hate it. So, to mask his unconscious gesture of concern, John lets his hand fall onto the back of Sherlock’s chair, not his shoulder. 

Even there, he can feel the warmth of his body.

Absurdly, he hopes Sherlock can feel his, too.

 

________________

   
Mycroft’s meeting with the Prime Minister is a long, tedious affair. The man is incapable of grasping even the simplest of concepts, and his obsession with Image and Profile is absurd. It’s as well he has the Civil Service behind him or the he country would find itself in straits more dire still.

Eventually the meeting concludes, and Mycroft makes a grateful return to his office, looking forward to spending time in intelligent company - his own. However, as he closes his door behind him, he hears someone speak.

“Ah, there you are," a lilting voice says, cheerily. "I’ve been waiting for absolutely ages.”

Mycroft hasn’t started in shock since learning that Wilkes was to be promoted over him. Management noticed the involuntary reaction and made it very clear that if he couldn't master his emotions, he would never secure advancement. Even so, he starts now. Home Office security is second to none. There is no way anyone should have been able to enter his office without his prior agreement and yet, leaning back in one of the Queen Anne chairs, sits a thin, dark-haired male.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Mycroft returns as smoothly as he can, recovering himself. “Mr ..?”

“Moriarty,” the intruder says, rising. “Call me Moriarty. Everyone does. Even your brother. Though-” The man pauses to chuckle. “- he probably thinks of me more as ‘Gay Jim from I.T.’ ”

So _this_ is James Moriarty. The fixer. In whom Sebastian Wilkes is mysteriously interested. He’s smaller than Mycroft expected, but he exudes power ... Mycroft does a quick mental review of the data and finds it suggests Moriarty is not being audited at all, but rather Assessed for Great Things. Wilkes must be playing Devil’s Advocate, trying to unearth anything that might stand between Moriarty and fast-track promotion. With a sudden, irrational flash of intuition, Mycroft realizes very little could ever stand in Moriarty’s way, and that it would be foolish to try. In short, Moriarty is exactly what he’s looking for. If anyone can prevent Sherlock Attaching to his Earthian any further, this Moriarty can.

“Please,” Mycroft smiles, indicating the seat in front of his desk. “Do come closer, and I’ll get my secretary to bring us some tea. I should very much like to talk.”  
 

________________

   
Sherlock starts the new day frazzled, having suffered his worst ever night on Earth. The hours of darkness felt interminable. With no hint of what the bomber’s next puzzle might be, his whirring brain kept returning to the irritating fact that John was angry with him. (And probably still is.) What makes it particularly galling is that, ordinarily, John laughs and smiles so easily. It’s not Sherlock’s fault the elderly female died: he _told_ her not to describe the bomber. It’s unfair of John to blame him for her death. (Why are Earthians so stupid? Why are they incapable of knowing what’s good for them?) Sherlock stalks out into the living room and flings himself into his armchair. (Why hasn’t the bomber called? Why is there no work?)

John comes down from his room a few minutes later. He looks tired again, sad - and for a few (horribly disturbing) moments, Sherlock finds himself struggling against a powerful urge to touch him in some way, to take him in his arms. It's a huge relief when he realizes the urge is purely scientific. He’s simply never seen John wearing that particular jumper before and, not having touched anything like it, he can’t conjure its precise texture in his mind, nor sense how much warmth it might absorb from John’s body. It's only when a little frown furrows John’s forehead and his cheeks turn slightly pink that Sherlock realizes he must be staring. He looks away. John goes into the kitchen to make himself breakfast. Neither of them speaks.

But it’s awkward, just sitting and trying to ignore John’s lack of talking. Sherlock flicks the television on to fill the silence. He hears John rinse his cereal bowl and mug in the sink, but keeps his gaze fixed determinedly on the screen when John comes into the living room and sits down.

The programme he's put on doesn’t make for comfortable viewing. _12 dead in gas explosion_ , say the subtitles over a scene of total devastation. There's rubble everywhere: splintered wood, brick dust and confusion. The tattered wreckage of Earthian lives.

At the sight of it, something lurches unpleasantly in Sherlock’s chest, disrupting his normally steady respiration. The muscles in his jaw tighten reflexively, and he swallows, alarmed. These symptoms are peculiar and unprecedented. Are they normal for an Angel acclimatizing to Earth, or a sign of impending disease? Sherlock flicks a glance at John. He hasn’t looked well for days. Could _he_ be the cause of Sherlock’s strange affliction? 

But, after a moment's scrutiny, Sherlock decides he's probably not. John isn’t displaying any of the standard indicators of Earthian illness. (He’s not flushed, his breathing is regular, his nasal passages clear). If he’s unwell, the cause is psychological, not physical. His expression, as he stares at the television screen, is one of disapproval and disappointment, his very posture a reprimand. These things shouldn’t happen, they seem to be saying, and he’s shooting Sherlock dark looks, as if he holds him responsible for the disaster.

For a moment, Sherlock grapples with an irrational fear that he might indeed be to blame for all those deaths but he shakes it off. He doesn’t care what John Watson thinks. John’s just an Earthian, a test subject - nothing more. And none of this is Sherlock’s fault anyway. He doesn’t need to prove anything to John - and yet he can’t seem to stop himself trying.

“Well, obviously, I lost that round,” he says testily. “Although technically, I _did_ solve the case. He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line.”

John stops casting him sideways, hostile glances and turns in his chair. “What d’you mean?”

“Well, usually, he must stay above it all,” Sherlock says, feeling his way along this new line of thought, hand over hand, like an Earthian lost in the dark. “He organizes these things … but no-one ever has direct contact.” 

Said out loud, it sounds suddenly familiar. The way Archs operate.

“What, like the Connie Prince murder?” John asks, surprising Sherlock again with the agility of his thinking. “He arranged that? So people come to him, wanting their crimes fixed up? Like booking a holiday?”

Bright lights go off in Sherlock’s head as one flash of inspiration ignites another. What if Moriarty is an Arch? An Arch operating outside the Rules? His power would be astonishing - and, on Earth, entirely his to wield. There would be no-one looking over his shoulders, no-one dragging him back into line. The idea makes Sherlock weak at the knees.

“Novel,” he breathes.

On the television, the news story has changed. Raoul de Santos is shown being bundled into a police car. Sherlock’s not interested. He’s already solved that case. Right now, all he wants is to start work on the next. Because with each puzzle, he's learning a little more about Moriarty. Soon he'll have enough to take him on. He looks at his phone impatiently. Whatever Moriarty's true identity is, he’s certainly taking his time.

“Anything on the Carl Powers case?” John asks, oblivious.

“Nothing.” Sherlock’s answer is impatient. That line of enquiry’s gone cold - a fact he’d rather not be reminded of. “All the living classmates check out, spotless. No connection.”

But instead of letting it drop, John pushes on. “Maybe the killer was older than Carl?”

“The thought had occurred.”

“So, why’s he doing this, then?” John asks, head cocked to one side. “Playing this game with you? D’you think he wants to be caught?”

It’s a good question, Sherlock realizes. What interest could an Arch have in him - a low-ranking Angel masquerading as a detective. (Ah! An Angel no longer prepared to obey would be no more able return to Heaven than one who’d Fallen.) (Which would limit their ability to interact with beings of equal intellectual standing.) Sherlock smiles as another piece of the jigsaw slips into place in his mind.

“I think he wants to be distracted.”

For some reason, this prompts John to get up from his chair with a mirthless laugh. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

There’s something odd in his voice, something beyond disapproval. Sherlock looks up sharply, confused. 

“Sorry - what?”

John turns. 

“There are lives at stake, Sherlock,” he shouts. “Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?”

Sherlock bristles, resenting the question. Angels aren't required to care about individuals. It's not in their nature. But surely a soldier - even an _ex_ one should understand that collateral damage is often inevitable. After all, it's the end that matters!

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock demands.

“Nope.” 

It may be an admission, but John's not conceding the point - he's arguing it. (Which makes no sense.) (Another example of Earthian illogic!)

Sherlock lets his nose wrinkle in disdain. “Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.”

Far from being embarrassed at the weakness of his argument, John grows angrier still. 

“And you find that easy, do you?” he snaps.

“Yes. Very,” Sherlock snaps back. “Is that news to you?”

Something strange flickers across John’s face - something almost like pain - but it’s gone too quickly for Sherlock to identify, replaced by a bitter smile, as he says, “No. _No_.”

Sherlock gapes. (What is wrong with John? Why can’t the idiot see that, in cases like this, the impersonal approach is by far the best? The man’s a doctor, after all.) Sherlock searches his face. Frown lines mark his forehead but there’s a slight upward tilt to his eyebrows at their inner edges. His smile is frozen, his chin juts. Sherlock blinks. The strange little Earthian is _hurt_.

And Sherlock has no idea how to handle that.

"I've disappointed you," he sneers, on the defensive.

“That’s good,” John nods, jabbing a finger aggressively in Sherlock’s direction, no longer trying to mask his feelings. “That’s a good deduction. Yeah.”

Sherlock shouldn’t feel anything other than mild amusement that an Earthian would expect a flatmate’s opinion to align with his own. The two of them are sharing their lives out of necessity: financial on the John’s part, mission-imposed on his. They’ve been thrown together by chance, nothing more.

“Don’t make people into heroes, John,” Sherlock says tartly. “Heroes don’t exist. And if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

This advice only seems to make John angrier still, and he looks on the verge of yelling again when Sherlock’s phone suddenly bleeps a text alert. He snatches it up with relief. 

“Excellent!” 

(Angels - even freelance, dangerous ones, apparently - are easier to predict than John.)

The text carries a photo attachment of somewhere on the south bank of the Thames but no other clues. Sherlock tells John to check the papers for any related information whilst he himself checks online. However, far from showing his usual enthusiasm for the chase, John remains standing where he is, smouldering in stony silence.

“Oh, you’re angry with me,” Sherlock taunts. “So you won’t help. Not much cop, this caring lark.”

At last - at _long_ last - John sees reason and yields. He crosses to the sofa and begins leafing through the pile of newspapers stacked on the coffee table. (Logic has finally won!)

Sherlock has no idea why it’s taken so long.

In the end it’s a call from Lestrade that breaks the tension between them. The police have found something on the Thames foreshore, near the Oxo Tower. Instantly, John’s mood changes. He’s no longer a resentful, disapproving flatmate but a man on a mission, a soldier awaiting orders.

“What d’you need?” he asks, almost standing to attention, as Sherlock ends the call.

What Sherlock needs is easy; what John expects of him is far less obvious. Sherlock studies the earnest face in front of him - the raised eyes and lowered chin, the nostrils flaring on an inward breath - and something clicks. 

“I need you to understand this is how I work,” he says briskly. “How I help. I don’t weep and wail - I look for data. Clues. If you want to help, you need to accept that.”

John gives a curt nod, gaze lowered for a moment. It’s not unqualified understanding, but it’s not blame either.

“You'll come with me?”

John raises his eyes, nods again. 

“Always.”  
 

________________

   
It’s almost noon by the time they start picking their way across the Thames’ silty foreshore to join Lestrade. The weather’s cold, the air piercingly clear, and Sherlock can feel his blood vessels constricting as his alien system strives to keep his core temperature stable. Nonetheless, he strides out purposefully because he’s solved one mystery about John: he’s calmer and more easily managed when Sherlock takes control.

The body Lestrade’s found would be hard to miss. Large and flabby, it’s white-shirted, black-trousered and lying flat on its back at the Fallen’s feet. Sherlock squats down beside it. (Earthian - going by the lack of muscle tone and the varicose veins on the legs.) A search of the pockets of its cheap uniform yields some crumpled, water-logged ticket stubs. (An attendant of some kind.)

Leaning in over the body, John is quick to home in on the cause of death. 

“There’s quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth,” he says, as Sherlock uses his phone to consult the missing persons database. “More bruises here … and here.”

 _Alex Woodbridge: Hickman Gallery._ The name on Sherlock’s screen leaps out at him. (Gallery. Attendant. The Hickman’s new exhibition.)

He turns to Lestrade. "I’ll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting’s a fake.”

Lestrade looks bewildered. “What painting? What are you on about?”

It’s painful to behold - a former Angel, blundering about so blindly.

“Haven’t you seen the posters?” Sherlock asks. “Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it’s turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.”

Even with such explicit help, Lestrade’s Earth-corrupted wits continue to struggle. 

“So what’s that got to do with the stiff?”

Sherlock shakes his head. Mycroft scarcely needs to keep warning against the perils of Attachment: Lestrade is a daily reminder of what harm it can do. Still, Sherlock’s quite enjoying this opportunity to sparkle, particularly with John hanging on his every word.

“It’s got everything to do with it,” he says. “Have you ever heard of the Golem?”

“Golem?”

“It’s a horror story, isn’t it?” John asks.

Sherlock looks at him in surprise. Given John’s scientific background, he wouldn’t have expected him to have paid any attention to myths. He certainly wouldn’t have expected him to know what a golem is. (It’s vaguely disconcerting: if John knows about golems, what other kinds of arcane knowledge might he be hiding?)

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Sherlock explains that ‘Golem’ is the nickname adopted by a flesh-and-blood killer called Oskar Dzundza - whose speciality is choking people to death with his bare hands.

“Inference: the dead man knew something about the painting,” he concludes. “Something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture’s a fake.”

“Fantastic,” John breathes, wide-eyed and smiling with admiration.

Suddenly the day feels less cold, but Sherlock shrugs off the compliment.

“Meretricious,” he says.

The sun must have got stronger: he is not blushing with pleasure. (Angels never blush.) (Truth is objective, not personal. It would be absurd to feel flattered or happy.)

“I’d better get my feelers out for this Golem character,” Lestrade mutters, with all the piercing insight Sherlock has begun to expect from his reduced condition.

“Pointless,” he says. “You’ll never find him. But I know a man who can.”

Lestrade looks dubious. “Who?”

Sherlock can’t help but grin.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock’s stamina is terrifying. It’s just as well he doesn’t have a girlfriend - or a boyfriend, either, John finds himself thinking, as he snatches a sandwich and a sit-down in one of the greasy spoons off Goswell Road on his way to Woodbridge’s flat: any poor sod Sherlock was involved with would die of exhaustion in a matter of days. His ability to keep going - without food, drink or rest - borders on superhuman. Having survived endless shifts as a junior doctor, and impossible demands on his strength and focus in Afghanistan, John has always considered himself pretty tough. He knows better now. Next to Sherlock, he’s like a Victorian heroine, swooning away with fatigue ... The thought prompts a sudden picture of himself collapsing into Sherlock's arms but he pushes it resolutely away.

Alex Woodbridge’s flat is in a nineteenth century mansion that once might have been rather grand, but is now a warren of bedsits. Woodbridge's house-mate introduces herself as Julie and shows John up to a room in the attic. He holds back an inappropriate smile: with its mess of scattered clothing and cluttered surfaces, this place would be like a home-from-home for Sherlock. There’s even some scientific equipment - but, instead of Bunsen burners and test tubes, Woodbridge’s room is dominated by a large telescope, pointing heavenwards through the roof light.

“Stargazer, was he?” John asks.

“God, yeah," Julie says with a sad smile. "Mad about it. It’s all he ever did in his spare time.”

“What about art?” John asks, as per Sherlock's instructions. “Did he know anything about that?”

Julie shakes her head. “It was just a job, you know?”

John really doesn’t. He’s never worked at anything he didn’t love. He’s been a doctor and a soldier; they were both vocations. And now … well, now he’s a detective and he loves that too, even if it’s often frustrating. Like today. Julie can’t give him with much - just a phone message for Woodbridge from a Professor Cairns. Given the number of academic institutions in Greater London, tracking Cairns down is going to be far from easy. As John braces himself for a long, slow grind, his phone beeps a text alert. When he sees who it’s from, he sighs.

_Re: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS Have you spoken to West’s fiancée yet? Mycroft Holmes._

Oh God, another bereaved relative John’s expected to grill. He puts his phone away, bids Julie good-bye and takes a taxi to Penge.  
 

________________

   
The 1950s semi Andrew West shared with his fiancée is small and dismal. Low ceilings, out-dated wallpaper and lots of badly chipped paint. It’s almost as if the house itself were crying too, and John sits awkwardly with the distraught Lucy, forcing himself through the worst of questions. John knows how he would feel if anyone were to accuse him of treason, of siding with the enemy.

“You don’t think ..?” he says carefully. “I mean, maybe there was a good reason for him to-”

“He wouldn’t,” Lucy cries, eyes pained, mouth taut with outrage. “He just wouldn’t!”

“Well,” John says, gently. “Stranger things have happened.”

But she’s adamant, unshakeable in her faith in her man, her love for him undiminished by his death. It makes John’s heart ache. Loneliness and emptiness are hard to bear, and he’s glad when the interview comes to an end. It’s cold in West’s house, as well as drear, and he’s suddenly overcome with craving for the warmth of 221B, and Sherlock’s arrogantly vital presence there.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft's afternoon has been hellish. Keeping the peace between the Chief Secretary to the Treasury and the Secretary of State for Business, Innovation and Skills - whilst simultaneously trying to avoid stepping on the Cabinet Secretary's toes - is the kind of job he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, and even _that_ is child's play compared with dealing with Sherlock. He swallows down a couple of the painkillers prescribed by that butcher of a dentist and rings for a car. An evening in the sanctuary of the Diogenes Club is no more than his due.

By the time he emerges onto the street, a Jaguar is already awaiting him at the kerb. A flunky steps smartly out of the shadows to open the rear door. Mycroft climbs in, fastens his seat belt and closes his eyes. The driver knows where he’s going: there’s no need for small talk.

The engine rumbles into life and the car bears Mycroft the short journey from Mersham Street to Carlton Terrace as gently and carefully as if he were the most precious of treasures. He smiles regretfully. _My most precious of treasures_ \- that's how Mummy used to describe Sherlock and him. Not for the first time, Mycroft wishes she’d lived longer. If she had, both he and Sherlock might have learnt to Detach naturally, to Detach _completely_. As it is, her early demise has left them unable to function normally. They’re like ill-made electronic devices, their circuitry not neatly finished but tatty, with dangling naked wires, crackling with energy and in desperate need of somewhere to earth.

Though not _Earth_ , obviously - and certainly not through an Earthian.

“So, then …”

Mycroft jerks upright at the sound of the driver's voice, seat belt cutting nastily into his chest and shoulder. Government drivers don’t speak unless spoken to.

“… how would you say I’m doing so far?” the voice goes on, and now Mycroft recognizes its melodic lilt. “Kidnapping an old lady was pure genius, wasn’t it? Guaranteed to sow a bit of discord, that. She wasn’t exactly on my list but-”

“You kidnapped an old lady?”

The face reflected in the rear-view mirror smiles maniacally, and the head nods.

“Wired her up with Semtex with my own fair hands, I did. It wasn’t as if she could see me, now, was it - and I’ve always wanted to see how it worked. You should’ve felt her tremble. I think it’s my new favourite thing! Earthians are so funny, aren’t they?”

A little old lady? Someone’s _mother_? Mycroft swallows hard. 

“Let her go,” he says quietly.

“Sor-ry!” Moriarty sing-songs, grinning more maniacally still. “ ‘Fraid I can’t do that. The old dear blabbed and … well, I’m sure you understand.”

“You … killed her?” Mycroft feels a sudden stab of fear. What kind of an Angel is this? He sees Moriarty’s shoulders rise in a shrug.

“She killed herself. I told her the rules. Whispered them into that thing she had.” He waggles the fingers of his left hand near his ear; Mycroft supposes he means the woman had a hearing aid. _Oh, Lord_ \- she was deaf, as well as blind. Mycroft feels sick.

“I asked you to drive a wedge between my brother and his flat-mate,” Mycroft reminds him. “To get John Watson out of his life. Not go around murdering the elderly and the infirm!”

Moriarty chuckles. They’re outside the Diogenes Club now, and he pulls the car smoothly to a halt.

“All part of the service,” he grins, twisting around in his seat to look Mycroft in the eye. “Besides, can’t you just feel it already? The atmosphere between the two of them? Sherlock must’ve been absolutely furious at having lost my little game, and Johnny-boy ... well, he'll have been weeping over the loss of a human life, won't he? How much sympathy d’you think Sherlock will have spared one dead, defective, old Earthian? How much sympathy d’you think he’ll have spared the doctor?”

A shiver of fear goes up Mycroft’s spine: the picture Moriarty is painting is an all too credible one, and yet the Angel has only met Sherlock and Watson once. How can he possibly have such insight? Perhaps Mycroft has told him too much ...

To hide his misgivings, Mycroft unbuckles his seat belt and gives a haughty sniff. 

“Let’s hope you’re right. I want this business over with. But you don’t know my brother.”

Moriarty has released his own belt now and opened the driver’s door. He steps out onto the pavement, and leans in to open Mycroft’s door.

“Oh, I know him well enough,” he says with a smile, and his mad eyes glitter.


	8. Chemical Defect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I was a soldier,” John says. “And I let my guard down …” He pauses and Sherlock sees the muscles in his throat contract. “Jesus, Sherlock - I could’ve got us both killed.”_
> 
> _“Stop that.” Sherlock abandons his tea-making, in favour of using his greater height to loom over John and intimidate the self-recrimination out of him. “You couldn’t possibly have known-”_
> 
> _“Of course I could!” John yells. Eyes flashing, he raises his hands and claws at the air in frustration. “You said it yourself - five pips - and we’d only had four-” His hands find his hair and he tears at it._
> 
> _“Stop,” Sherlock says again. He catches John by the wrists and lowers his hands to his sides._
> 
> _He means to let go immediately but it’s the first time he’s touched skin, and this skin is John’s. It’s amazing. The data input alone is making his head spin - but the contact is doing other things, too: physical and emotional things beyond Sherlock’s power to define. Things that make him tighten his grip._
> 
> _John starts at the increased pressure and looks up, his eyes wide with surprise, his lips slightly parted ..._

Sherlock is on the pavement outside 221B, stamping his feet against the cold. (John has been gone too long. Where is he? He should have been done with West’s fiancée an hour ago.) Not that Sherlock’s been waiting for him. He’s waiting for _a taxi_. The timing is pure coincidence, because whatever nonsense Mycroft may have to say on the matter, coincidences do happen. Two weeks ago, annoyed by the weight of it, Sherlock got rid of the loose change in his pockets by emptying them into some tramp's begging bowl. He had no idea the bowl's owner would want to _earn_ the money, or that she would have such a useful network of friends. He tightens his grip on the scrap of paper in his hand - it bears the Golem’s last known address - and curses John for not being here already.

At last a black cab draws up. John has no sooner stepped out of it, than Sherlock is bundling him back in; and if Sherlock’s feels warmer as he settles on the seat next to him, well, that’s just coincidence too.

John is very quiet as the cab threads its way through the stop-start traffic on Lower Grosvenor Place towards Vauxhall Bridge. At a casual glance, his attention seems to have been captured by the flashy shop windows and the glitter of theatre-goers but his expression tells another story. (He’s thinking about something unpleasant. Something that hurts in some way). Sherlock wonders if he should ask what it is. (Is that what an Earthian would do?) He’s irritated to find he doesn’t know - then more irritated still when he realizes John’s sadness feels like something he should do something about.

The taxi drops them off Kennington Lane, and Sherlock opts for a short-cut through a narrow back alley. Trains rumble past overhead and litter blows around their feet. ‘Squalid’ doesn’t begin to cover it - and John still hasn’t said a word. Mere weeks ago Sherlock was on Heaven. He misses it. Misses its calm and clarity, its emotion-free interactions. Had John been brought to him in his lab there, Sherlock would have know exactly what to do with him; on Earth, it’s all stumbling negotiation, unsatisfying compromise and too much not knowing. Sherlock slants a look in John’s direction, trying to read his face, but deduces nothing more than sadness. He tugs impatiently at his coat and wraps it around himself more tightly. It’s unfair and incomprehensible that the low spirits of one small Earthian can have made his very existence feel colder. Sherlock looks up at the perfect cold order of the night sky and feels suddenly. It’s high time he put the disruptive little creature at his side firmly in its place. If he’d wanted constant disapproval, he’d have moved in with Mycroft.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices John noticing him looking up.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sherlock says, bitterly, challenging him to disagree.

John meets the challenge head on. “I thought you didn’t care about things like that,” he says.

Sherlock clenches his jaw and fastens another coat button.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.”

They walk on in silence, into a dingy passage of brick-built arches dripping water onto uneven cobblestones. A relic from London’s railway-building past that would once have signalled prosperity and growth but which is now a forgotten necessity - a turtle holding up the metropolitan world. 

Sherlock turns off into a side passage with no electric lighting.

“Nice,” John mutters, following anyway. “Nice part of town. Any time you wanna explain ..?”

Sherlock stops, and turns to face him, a sharp response on the tip of his tongue, but there’s something about the way the Earthian is looking up at him, that makes him want to explain instead.

“Homeless network," he says gruffly. "Really is indispensable.”

The gloom around them has thickened. John takes a torch from his pocket and flicks it on.

“Homeless network?”

“My eyes and ears all over the city,” Sherlock says, with a flutter of pride. In the Army, John was a captain. He had men under him, but over him too, and he admires the ability to lead. The relationship between them will be so much easier to manage if John can be persuaded to accept he's no longer the one in command.

They walk on, sweeping their torch beams over the darkness. At first, all they pick out is graffiti and litter, but all of a sudden, there's movement: huddled figures flinching under the light, and pressing themselves to the brickwork, as they seek refuge in the shadows.

At Sherlock’s back, he hears John hiss a warning.

He freezes. Ahead of them, a long-limbed shadow unfolds against greying whitewashed wall. The figure is huge. with hands like claws. (It’s him! Dzundza. The Golem.)

Sherlock ducks back behind a wall, out of sight, as he weighs his next move. Beside him, John pats himself down and lets out a small sound of frustration. 

With a smile, Sherlock takes John's gun from his pocket and places it - still warm from the heat of his body - into his hand.

Sadly, there’s no time to bask in having shown himself to be prescient and resourceful: the Golem is on the move. Sherlock takes off after him, with John close behind but it's no good: at the end of the tunnel, a car stands waiting. The Golem puts on a last burst of speed and dives in. 

“No, no, no, no!” Sherlock cries, as the car zooms away. “It’ll take us weeks to find him again.”

“Or not."  
('Or not?') 

Sherlock turns to look at John. He's remarkably calm.

“I have an idea where he might be going," he explains, looking pleased with himself. "I told you - someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can’t be that many Professor Cairns in the phone book. Come on.”  
 

________________

   
John’s surprised to find that the Planetarium isn’t on the Marylebone Road any more. According to their cabbie, it relocated to Greenwich Park years ago, whilst John was doing his defence medical services training. He supposes that, by now, he should be used to London no longer being the London he used to know.

The bloke on Reception is half-way through a sandwich and a cup of tea when they arrive. He looks pointedly the Opening Hours shown on the wall, but Sherlock goes all deferential, explaining they need to speak to Professor Cairns - urgently. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. The receptionist - whom John would have sworn was a jobsworth - yields instantly, and points a chubby forefinger down the corridor.

The Planetarium is in almost total darkness, the only illumination an otherworldly glow from the cinema screen. There’s music playing and John finds his pulse quickening to the ominously martial beat. Adrenalin pumping, he strains to hear past the soundtrack, and picks up the sound of Sherlock breathing, close by. It’s unexpected and oddly thrilling, but before John can berate himself for the wholly inappropriate want it sparks, something soft and human-sized hits the floor ahead of them with a thud.

The light from the screen goes out, and the room goes black. A split-second later, the light’s back on, then off again, flashing erratically as the video rewinds and replays. In one of the bursts of light, John catches sight of the Golem’s shadow, streaking impossibly tall across the back wall. He tears after it, gun in hand but when the room is plunged into darkness again, he loses track. The next time the light comes on, it's blood red and on Sherlock, who's up on the stage with the Golem at his throat. He's fighting back, but his heels skids uselessly on the polished flooring. The Golem is too big, too strong, and the fight's not fair. John goes hot with anger, but he stamps the feeling down. He needs to keep a clear, cold head. He jumps up onto the stage and advances, pointing his gun.

“Golem!” he snarls in a voice that sounds icy, even to his own ears. “Let him go, or I _will_ kill you.”

The Golem may be massive, but he's only flesh and blood, and his heart's not in this battle. He kills for money, not from conviction. He'll back off - he _has_ to. John glances at Sherlock, just for a second, to reassure and check he’s all right, but when their eyes meet he sees something in Sherlock's that makes his already hammering heart beat harder still. It's all the distraction the Golem needs. He tosses Sherlock aside, and kicks the gun from John's hand. John scarcely has time to register the bruising pain of it before the Golem's strangling him, his iron-strong thumbs pressing down hard on John's trachea and reducing his every attempt at breathing to a rasping cough. John’s vision goes black around the edges and he falls, but - thank God - hitting the floor is enough to shock him back to consciousness. Sherlock's above him now, fists raised; the Golem's looming. It's like David and Goliath - but a David without a slingshot. John scrambles to his feet - though he's too late to stop the Golem bringing his fist down on Sherlock’s skull. The blow is ferocious and Sherlock crumples beneath it. The Golem lunges forward, teeth bared in a terrible grin, and John knows, bone-deep, that it he doesn’t stop him, Sherlock will die. With motivation like that, he does the only thing he can: he flings himself onto the Golem’s back, and wrenches the bastard’s hands from Sherlock’s airway. The Golem surges up, as if John weighed nothing; whirls and bucks until he’s flung him to the ground. This time, John's too winded to move. All he can do is watch as Sherlock takes up the fight once more. He's got the gun now and he fires it without hesitation. John hears the ping of bullets but they don’t hit their target. He could have told Sherlock they wouldn’t - you can’t kill a man who’s running away when you’re sprawled on your the ground. As the music concludes with a crash of cymbals, Sherlock sinks to the floor and thumps it in frustration.

John's just about caught his breath.

“You okay?” he asks, as they help each other to their feet.

Sherlock coughs, nods. “You?”

John gives him a wry smile. “Fine. Though I’ve had enough bloody Holst to last me a lifetime.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and John decides all the bruises he’ll be covered with tomorrow will have been worth it. They’ve spent far too many of the last few days angry with each other.

“Come on,” Sherlock says, straightening his coat. “Let's get to the Hickman.”  
 

________________

   
Mycroft gives the Waterford tumbler in his hand a little shake and watches his third malt whisky of the evening whirlpool around it. He sighs. The alcohol was supposed to have dragged him under and drowned out the voices telling him he’s made a mistake, but it’s failed. He should never have enlisted Moriarty to solve his Sherlock problem. It was a heinous lapse in judgement. Management may have faith in the Dominion, but Mycroft hasn’t. Moriarty kills - he said so himself. Worse still, he enjoys it. Who’s to say John Watson will be the only casualty in this? What if-?

 _No._ Mycroft can’t afford to think that way. If he starts panicking, all will be lost. He needs to think. He sets his whisky aside and lights a cigarette, sucking on it deeply as he revisits his last conversation with Moriarty. He recalls it verbatim, remembers Moriarty's terrifyingly playful tone, but for some reason his brain won't play the thing right through but gets stuck on: _How would you say I’m doing so far? Kidnapping an old lady was pure genius, wasn’t it? Guaranteed to sow a bit of discord, that. She wasn’t exactly on my list but-_

Mycroft sucks in another lungful of smoke, hard. _List_? What list? Where did it come from? Management? Is that why Moriarty's able to murder with impunity? Or do they know nothing of it? Mycroft tries to picture Raphael, or Michael, or any of The Seven sanctioning slaughter, and realizes it’s impossible. Moriarty’s 'list' must be his own. But perhaps Management suspect? Is that why Wilkes is in London? It would make sense if he were acting as Management’s eyes and ears: the Authority may be painfully slow, but he’s cold-blooded and precise. Whatever Moriarty’s game is, Wilkes will surely find it.

Mycroft takes another deep drag on his cigarette. He has information. Information on Moriarty that both Wilkes and Management might find useful. The rules dictate he should share it, except …

Mycroft reaches for his whisky again, and downs in it one, wincing as it burns its way down his throat. This must be what Hell feels like, he thinks: this hateful uncertainty and indecision. If he goes to Management and tells them Moriarty has embarked on a killing spree behind their backs, they’re bound to ask how he knows. And that, in turn, will mean admitting not only to Sherlock’s Attachment problem, but also his own. 

He needs a different plan and, as he finishes his cigarette, one slowly starts to form. He’ll call Lestrade. He has the Fallen on speed-dial. 

“Mycroft?” Lestrade sounds bleary, as though he’s stifling a yawn. “What the-”

“I’ll be brief, Gregory. This concerns your friend, the fixer, and is a matter of the utmost importance. I want you here in five minutes.”

“He’s not my- _Five_? With the roadworks on Horse-”

“Don’t waste time, Gregory. My patience is not endless.”

Lestrade grunts and the line goes dead. Four and half minutes later, the Fallen is being shown into Mycroft’s office, looking utterly appalling - unshaven and as if his coat’s been slept in.

“What’s all this about?” Lestrade grumbles.

“It has come to my attention,” Mycroft says, fixing him with his steeliest look, “that James Moriarty recently killed an old lady.” He pauses, waiting for a reaction, and sure enough, Lestrade’s mouth twists and he tugs at his shirt collar. 

“But you already knew that."

Lestrade nods, eyes downcast.

Mycroft takes a step towards him, deliberately slow, deliberately dangerous. 

“I take it you also know that she wasn’t the first.”

Lestrade stuffs both hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched as he again nods his head.

The urge to slam him into a wall is almost overwhelming. Mycroft slaps a hand down on the table instead. 

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you didn’t see fit to divulge this information before allowing me to involve him in my brother’s life.”

Lestrade raises beseeching eyes. “Sherlock. He asked me not to.”

Mycroft smiles coldly. Sherlock once told him it was the kind of smile that curdled milk. It certainly has an effect on Lestrade, who backs away.

“I’d love to say I’m not angry, Gregory, but that would be lying. I am angry - very angry, indeed. Angry enough to bring your actions to Management’s attention. However, as an Angel, I incline towards helping you on the path to redemption.”

“Right. Yeah. Thanks. Uh, what-?”

“Tell me about the others.”

Lestrade eyes the open packet of cigarettes on the table and licks his lips nervously.

Mycroft decides to be generous. “Help yourself.”

Lestrade’s hands tremble as he lights up, a sure sign he’s about to tell the truth, even though he fears it. Mycroft waits for him to strengthen his resolve.

“We thought they were suicides,” Lestrade begins. “But Sherlock realized they were murders. A very specific kind of murder ...”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t even know they existed. Didn’t think they _could_. Me and the wife … well, she wanted kids, but it never happened. Just like the books said, I thought: incompatible physiologies. Except they’re not, are they? Not completely. Sometimes an Angel and an Earthian-”

“Do get to the point, Gregory.”

“Well, sometimes-” Lestrade takes another suck on his cigarette and blows the smoke out slowly. “- you get a Nephilim.”

Mycroft can hardly believe his ears. Lestrade can’t believe that. _Sherlock_ can’t believe that. 

“Nephilim don’t exist,” he says, firmly.

“Mike Stamford’s got two on ice in Bart’s mortuary and post mortem reports on four more, if you want to take a look,” Lestrade counters. “Not that I can claim any credit. Like I said … Sherlock’s the one who realized.”

Mycroft’s stomach lurches. In retrospect, drinking three straight whiskies was a poor decision. 

“I need to stop him,” he says. “You need to stop him.”

“Stop Sherlock?”

Mycroft glares. “I rather think miracles are beyond you, Inspector. I meant, of course, that you need to stop Moriarty. Phone him. Call him off.”

Lestrade grimaces. “I don’t have a number.”

Really, it’s like pulling teeth. Mycroft winces at the memory of his recent dental work. 

“Then how,” he asks, slowly, “did you contact him before?”

“Same way as Sherlock. Over the Internet.”

“The Internet?”

“Yeah. You just post something somewhere high-profile - Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, your personal blog - and he’ll see it.”

“I don’t have a personal blog,” Mycroft sniffs, appalled at the very idea.

“Twitter, then.”

“I do not-” Mycroft’s mouth twists on the word in distaste. “- _tweet_.”

Lestrade smiles grimly. “Well, you do now. Come on, I’ll help you set up an account.”

Mycroft follows him over to the departmental computer - Lestrade insists a solid I.P. address will lend authenticity - and the Fallen magics up an online persona: Big Brother. Avatar: an umbrella. Fingers poised over the keyboard, he looks up.

“What d’you want to say? You’re limited to a hundred and forty characters.”

Mycroft considers. It needs to be something that will catch Moriarty’s attention, but no-one else’s. Something unambiguous, yet discreet.

“Wedge no longer required,” he says, and Lestrade's fingers clatter over the keys. “Game cancelled. You are advised to retire."  
 

________________

   
Sherlock rather likes the sound his feet make striking the Hickman Gallery's concrete floor. With Lestrade and the gallery's sour-faced director standing waiting for him, the hollow echo lends a nicely dramatic touch to the black and white tableau.

“It’s a fake,” Sherlock declares, without even bothering to look at the roped-off painting. “It has to be.”

“That painting has been subjected to every test known to science,” Ms Wenceslas says, her words tight with irritation.

“It’s a very good fake, then,” Sherlock snaps back. “You know about this, don’t you? This is you, isn’t it?”

Wenceslas can’t meet his eyes. She turns to Lestrade, instead. 

“Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself … and your friends out?”

Before Lestrade can answer, the pink phone rings. Sherlock puts it on speaker. He's going to enjoy this.

“The painting is a fake,” he announces, not just to the bomber but to Lestrade and Wenceslas, too. And John ...

He can feel John holding his breath, and watching him, as if he thinks Sherlock’s some kind of omniscient, omnipotent deity and pleasure of an unexpectedly physical kind ripples up from Sherlock’s belly to his throat. 

But something is wrong. The pink phone remains stubbornly silent. Sherlock tries again. 

“It’s a fake," he says. "That’s why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.” 

There's no admission that he's right; the silence goes on. 

“Oh, come on!" he cries. "Proving it’s just the detail. The painting is a fake. I’ve solved it. I’ve figured it out. It’s a fake! That’s the answer. That’s why they were killed.”

John looks away. (He's worried. His faith is beginning to falter.) 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He will _not_ lose the game now. 

“Okay. I’ll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?”

“Ten …” The voice that answers shocks them all. It’s thin and high. _Young_.

“It’s a kid,” Lestrade gasps. “Oh, god. It’s a kid.”

(A kid!) Sherlock’s heart leaps with excitement. (A young Nephilim would be a fantastic resource!)

“Nine,” the reedy little voice continues, and John clamps a hand to his mouth, as if he might vomit.

Sherlock peers harder at the painting, just like an Earthian would. (Like _John_ would.)

“Eight …”

Sherlock rounds on Wenceslas. 

“This kid will die,” he yells, and his voice echoes off the walls splendidly. “Tell me why the painting is a fake. Tell me! No! Shut up! Don’t say anything. It only works if I figure it out.”

All eyes are on him now, even Wenceslas’ - not that Sherlock cares about that. The game alone is exhilarating. The painting is a fake. He has to work out why. With no other evidence than the painting itself.

“ _Oh!_ ” he breathes. The clue is right there, in front of him.

“Four.” 

The child's voice is wretched but Sherlock almost bounces in delight at the images flooding his mind: music, a giant, a gun.

“Sherlock!” John’s tone is harsh. (He's anxious, he doesn’t understand, he doesn't see the sheer artistry of it.)

“In the planetarium,” Sherlock says, and thrusts the pink phone into his hand. “You heard it too! Oh, that is _brilliant_. That is _gorgeous_!”

“Three …”

John is on tenterhooks, uncomprehending. “What’s brilliant? What is?”

Sherlock laughs, thinking how wonderful, how satisfying, it would be to keep John like this forever - hanging on his every word, eternally poised on a crest of tension. 

“This is beautiful!” Sherlock cries, unable to stop himself. “I love this!”

“Two …”

But tension has to break and Sherlock wants to see that in John's face too. He snatches the phone from his hand and shouts into it. 

“The Van Buren Supernova!”

“Please,” the child begs. “Is somebody there? Somebody help me.”

Sherlock hands Lestrade the phone. “Go find out where he is and pick him up.”

John's mouth has fallen open; his chest's heaving. It's a glorious sight.

“The Van Buren Supernova, so-called,” Sherlock tells him, sweeping a hand towards the painting. “Exploding star. Only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight.”

When he turns back towards him, John’s eyes are huge. 

“So how could it have been painted in the sixteen forties?” he pants, an enormous smile creasing his face. “Oh," he breathes. " _Oh_ , Sherlock!”

It’s exactly the reaction Sherlock wanted. He looks into John’s eyes and smiles.  
 

________________

   
Alone in his room at the surgery, John toys listlessly with the prescription pad on his desk, curling one corner up with his thumb, then slowly releasing it so that the pages flutter down again, one by one. He knows a slow morning at work ought to be a nice change of pace after a night of hand-to-hand combat with a seven-foot assassin and then standing helplessly by whilst Sherlock turned that enormous brain of his to saving some poor kid’s life, but it’s not. John’s bored. He’s tidied his desk, weighed himself on the patient scales and taken his own blood pressure (twice). And now he's out of distractions.

A knock at the door - a confident one, not the kind of tentative rap you get from patients - makes him look up expectantly.

“Come!” he says, but when the door opens, it’s only Sarah. He tries not to feel disappointed. She’s let her hair down and exchanged her knee-length work skirt for something shorter and brighter. In fact, she looks pretty damn gorgeous as she smiles at him.

“I was wondering … ” She looks away for a moment, and runs an index finger slowly down the length of the door handle. “Are you free tonight? A patient’s just given me a bottle of champagne. It seems a shame to drink it on my own. If you like, I could cook us a meal. Not omelette. Something more … interesting this time.” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully. “With afters.”

John blinks at her and licks his lips. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Her smile turns coquettish. “Maybe?”

John grins. “What time?”

“Eight o’clock? Then I can have everything ready.”

“Everything?”

Sarah laughs. “Like I said - maybe.”

 

John’s shift ends at one. Sarah's busy with the baby clinic from two, so John’s got a free afternoon. He’s half-way down the health centre step, debating the benefits of an afternoon nap over chasing up the glaziers to fix the living room windows when he remembers the text he got last night. 

_My patience is wearing thin. Mycroft Holmes._

In the excitement, he’d forgotten all about it.

He pauses, and looks up at the sky. It’s a beautiful day, and a walk in the sunshine could be as restorative as sleep. He’ll take the Jubilee line to Battersea and take a look at the points where Andrew West’s body was found. Maybe ask a few questions and see if he can find out something Sherlock hasn’t. It would be fantastic to be able to surprise him. And anyway, getting into Mycroft’s good books might be a wise move, too. Mycroft has never said anything - never been anything but fastidiously polite - but John can’t shake the feeling that, for some reason or another, Sherlock’s older brother doesn’t much like him.  
 

________________

   
The cross-party talks on immigration - which the Prime Minister, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to hold in the Cabinet Room - aren’t scheduled to begin until 3 p.m., but Mycroft has arrived early. He prefers to be ahead of the game.

He lets himself in and closes the door. A few minutes’ respite from the demands of government will be easier to snatch if no-one can see him. Congratulating himself on this small victory, he heads over to a seat by the window: he'll need both air and light if he’s to remain alert during the hours and hours of argument ahead.

“Got your message,” a voice says out of the blue, and Mycroft almost drops the file he’s carrying.

Moriarty is lounging in the P.M.’s chair in front of the fireplace, elbows splayed on the arms, hands dangling loosely over his lap.

“Good,” Mycroft says, quickly composing himself. “I will, of course, reimburse any expenses you may have incurred.”

“No need. It was fun.” Moriarty pauses, smiles. “In fact, it’s been so much fun that I’ve decided to keep on playing, whether you pay me or not.”

“Listen -” Mycroft does his best to loom over Moriarty from the other side of the table. “- I have told you to withdraw. Don’t make me-”

Moriarty laughs and claps his hands.

“Oh, aren’t you precious! We both know there’s nothing you can do. You’re not going to run crying to Management. They won’t think much of you fussing over little Sherlock, will they? And they certainly won’t approve of him going all doe-eyed over a boring little Earthian. Wouldn’t be surprised if they send him straight to -” Moriarty gives the floor a significant look. “- _you know where_.”

Mycroft clenches his teeth. “What do you want?”

“I TOLD YOU!” Moriarty yells, and he slams both hands down on the table, making the Prime Minister’s water glass jump. But, as quickly as his anger flared, it’s gone. He leans back in the P.M.'s chair again and pulls a tragic face. “I just want some fun, you know? This whole planet’s so _boring_.”

Out in the hallway, the Benson long case clock chimes quarter to the hour. Time is running out.

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “I don’t see how I can help, but if you’d care to enlighten me …”

A wide grin splits Moriarty’s pale face. 

“See! There you go! I knew you’d be reasonable about this.” He gets to his feet. “If I can’t have my fun with your brother’s little pet, then you’ll have to get me someone else. Someone high profile, this time - not a dreary little no-name soldier boy. I’m building myself a nice little empire here, and a big, juicy kill would do wonders for my reputation.”

“Thou shalt not kill,” Mycroft breathes, more to himself than Moriarty, but Moriarty hears it anyway.

“Yeah, and you’re not supposed to go around coveting your neighbour’s ass either, but d’you see your brother abiding by that one? Tell you what - why don’t you try thinking of it as doing something positive? I get my reputation enhanced, and you get to keep Sherlock’s secret from Management. Because, if you won’t help me, I could just as easily tell them-”

“I can’t give you the Prime Minister,” Mycroft blurts out before he can think it through. “I simply _can’t_.”

Moriarty stares at him, eyes like daggers, and Mycroft's sure he’s going to demand the Prime Minister’s head, just to spite him. But he doesn’t. He just laughs.

“The Prime Minister! I could kill him any time. No, Mycroft. I want someone better than that.”

Mycroft nods. “All right. I’ll find you someone.”

Moriarty rises from his chair and saunters to the door. “Better ha-ad,” he sing-songs, as he opens it and steps out into the hall. “I’ll give you five hours.”  
 

________________

   
Sherlock finally realizes that the next puzzle has been staring him in the face for days (The Bruce Partington Plans! Of course!) and springs out of his chair. He’ll examine the points where Andrew West’s body was found. He’ll pick John up from the surgery and they’ll go together.

However, when his cab pulls up outside of the health centre on Devonshire Place, he finds that John’s already left. Sherlock can see him, further up the street, walking swiftly towards the Marylebone Road. He _could_ be returning to Baker Street, but there’s something so purposeful about his gait - fists clenched, arms swinging, feet striking the ground to an almost military beat - that Sherlock’s certain he must be heading elsewhere: you don’t walk home from work as though you’re marching off to war. Intrigued, Sherlock decides to follow.

For a man with short legs, John moves with surprising speed, and Sherlock finds he has to quicken his pace to keep John in sight as he weaves in and out of the hordes of pedestrians. (If only John were taller, this would be so much easier!)

At the traffic lights on the corner of Baker Street, Sherlock’s suspicions are confirmed: John doubles back on himself and disappears into Baker Street Underground. Sherlock dives in after him, and follows him down the escalators onto the platform for the southbound Jubilee line. Sherlock smiles to himself: John’s heading for Battersea too. (He’s trying to help!) (This will be entertaining to watch!) Determined to keep out of John's sight for as long as he can, Sherlock get into a different car.

At Battersea, there's a ticket inspection at the barrier. John gets through easily, but the idiot in front of Sherlock holds everyone up, and by the time Sherlock makes it to the footbridge above the points, John is already down on the tracks. He's kitted out in a High Vis jacket and talking to a railway worker. Rather charmingly, he’s taken out a little pad and pen, and is taking down notes.

Sherlock's amused at first, and then proud, but all of a sudden his blood runs cold. (John’s pen is in his _left_ hand.) Sherlock sucks in a lungful of air and exhales it slowly, willing the rapid beating of his heart to slow. (Some Earthians are left-handed. It doesn’t necessarily mean-) (Except John’s clever. Far cleverer than a simple Earthian should be - cleverer than a lot of _Angels_. He’s had not one but _two_ demanding professions. Been high-placed in both-)

Sherlock could kick himself. Why didn’t he see it before? John’s a Nephilim - and all this time, he’s been hiding in plain sight, pretending to be safe and docile; drinking tea and wearing woolly jumpers, when in reality-

Sherlock races down the footbridge stairs and out onto the track. John’s alone now and, at the sight of him, crouched down by the rails, something deep in Sherlock’s chest actually _hurts_. This looks too much like unquestioning loyalty, too much like the kind of blind devotion Sherlock’s always longed for - yet it’s nothing of the sort. His throat tightens and his eyes start to burn. (Stupid Earth and its toxic atmosphere. Stupid London and its pollution-laden air.)

Sherlock pulls himself taller and pastes on his blankest expression. He’s not going to let John see that he _knows_. He needs to find out exactly why the Nephilim’s been deceiving him. But, as he advances down the rails, John changes position and the evening sunlight catches his hair. lending it a reddish hue. _Redbeard_. The memory is on Sherlock before he can stop it; so powerful, it makes him stumble. He tries to compose himself, but it’s no good. He’s eleven again, heart-broken and powerless to save the life of his only friend. It was the last time he ever cried.

He blinks hard, chasing the memory and clearing his eyes. John’s not Redbeard. John is real, and dangerous, and terrifyingly autonomous. With a deep breath to quell his agitation, Sherlock moves forward silently, speaking only when he’s right behind him.

“Points,” he says, as coolly as he can. “Knew you’d get there eventually. West wasn’t killed here - that’s why there was so little blood.”

“How long have you been following me?” John snaps, his posture - his whole manner - defensive. Like someone with something to hide.

“Since the start,” Sherlock tells him, revelling in the flicker of alarm he sees in John’s no longer innocent eyes. “You don’t think I’d give up on a case like this, just to spite my brother, do you? Come on. We’ve got a bit of burglary to do.”

There's no argument. John falls into step behind him.

The question is: why?  
 

________________

   
Even inside the taxi, the air is chilly. The sunshine John set out in has completely gone now, leaving the suburbs they’re passing through shrouded in a thickening mist.

Something else has changed, too. Last night, Sherlock was on brilliant form - as voluble and vain as ever - but today’s he’s different. He didn’t do a lot of talking down on the points, but since getting into the cab, he’s been silent and withdrawn. John is used to Sherlock's mood swings, but this feels different. Even talking about the case fails to engage him; Sherlock just grunts, tugs his collar up higher and turns away to stare out of the window. If Sherlock were anyone else, John would assume he’s angry with him about something, but Sherlock’s not exactly the passive-aggressive type - direct confrontation is far more his style. Even so, John can’t help feeling uneasy, that he's done something wrong.

The taxi drops them off in a tree-lined street of Victorian villas. Sherlock leads the way, and John follows. For a full five minutes, Sherlock says nothing. Doesn’t even look at him. John’s on the point of demanding to know what’s up, when Sherlock finally decides to speak.

“The missile defence plans haven’t left the country. Otherwise, Mycroft’s people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service.”

“Yeah. I know. I’ve met them,” John says with a wry smile but it seems it’s too obvious a play for some you-and-me-against-your-brother solidarity, because Sherlock just goes on, as if John hadn't spoken.

“Which means whoever stole the memory stick can’t sell it, or doesn’t know what to do with it. My money’s on the latter. We’re here.”

He stops abruptly, and takes a right turn into the front garden of one of the houses.

“Where?” John asks - and with Sherlock still giving off odd vibes, he can’t help noticing the question has a bit of a metaphorical feel to it as well as a practical one.

Sherlock doesn’t answer; just runs up a flight of steps to a door on the first floor.

“Sherlock!” John hisses, following him. “What if there’s someone in?”

“There isn’t.” Sherlock's brisk tone implies that much should have been obvious, and he takes something out from the pocket of his coat.

It’s a little piece of rigid plastic, and the thrill John experiences as Sherlock slips it between the door and the jamb to flip open the lock is a distinctly dark one. It’s not that he has any moral objection to breaking into someone else’s home - he abandoned his adherence to Right and Legal the very first night with Sherlock - but there’s always the possibility they’ll get caught. Not that that’s a problem. In fact, the coil of fear winding ever tighter in John’s gut is bloody glorious, and his pulse thuds even harder when Sherlock throws the door open and enters the flat.

“Where are we?” John asks in a whisper. If pressed, he’d say student digs of some kind because of the chipped paintwork, the ugly wallpaper and the all-pervasive smell of damp.

“Oh, didn’t I say?” Sherlock asks, bounding up the small staircase in front of them. “Joe Harrison’s flat. Brother of West’s fiancée. He stole the memory stick. Killed his prospective brother-in-law.”

John’s mind flashes back to Lucy Harrison’s tear-stained face and his stomach goes cold: she’ll have lost not just a lover but a brother, too. He crosses the room to the window, where Sherlock using his lens to examine the frame. There’s blood on the paintwork. John shudders. He’ll probably always be affected by the death of a soldier. 

“Why’d he do it?” he asks.

Sherlock doesn’t get time to reply. Downstairs, a lock clicks, and footsteps sound on the hallway’s bare boards. Sherlock straightens up, his silhouette very dark against the light from the window, his face grim.

“Let’s ask him."

John takes out his pistol, and edges towards the open door, holding his breath. He recognizes Harrison as soon as he sees him. Whether Harrison recognizes him as anything other than a threat he couldn’t say, but Harrison lifts the bike he was about to carry up the stairs out in front of him, and brandishes it like a weapon.

John points his gun at him. “Don’t,” he says. “ _Don’t_.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation in Harrison’s eyes, but the disparity between their fire power is obvious. At John’s command, he drops the bike and troops wearily ahead of him into the living room where he sinks down onto the sofa in defeat. 

Sherlock greets him with a glare.

“It wasn’t meant to …” Harrison begins, and he sounds so wretched that John knows he’s telling the truth. Andrew West’s death was a tragic mistake.

Sherlock, however, gives a short huff of annoyance and looks away.

“God,” Harrison groans, biting a nail. “What’s Lucy gonna say? Jesus.”

“Why did you kill him?” John asks.

“It was an accident,” Harrison says, and - again - John believes him, although Sherlock gives an incredulous snort. “I swear it was.”

“But stealing the plans for the missile defence programme wasn’t an accident, was it?” Sherlock challenges, the edges of his words furiously precise.

John’s surprised by venom in his tone. He didn’t think Sherlock gave a damn about this case and yet here he is, acting as though Harrison's betrayal were personal. As Harrison tries to explain what happened - how he stole the missile plans from West when West was drunk, and how when West found out they got into a fight - John watches Sherlock, trying to make sense of his anger. He expects it to abate when Harrison says he was going to call an ambulance but realized it was too late; instead, Sherlock’s expression only grows harder.

“I didn’t have a clue what to do,” Harrison says, “so I dragged him in here, and I just sat in the dark. Thinking.”

“When a neat little idea popped into your head,” Sherlock says, scathing.

“D’you still have it, then?” John asks Harrison. “The memory stick?”

Harrison nods.

“Fetch it for me,” Sherlock says curtly, adding, a heartbeat later, “If you wouldn’t mind.” His tone is so acid that it only makes the order sound harsher still. Stern-faced, he walks over to John and mutters, “Distraction over. The game continues.”

“Well,” John replies, “maybe that’s over too. We’ve heard nothing from the bomber.”

John’s confused. Sherlock’s just solved another case and yet instead of being pleased with himself like he usually is, he’s radiating anger. Even though Harrison’s no longer in the room.

“Five pips, remember?” Sherlock says, meeting John’s eyes, like a challenge. “We’ve only had four.”  
 

________________

   
Mycroft has spent the past two hours scrolling through the list of every Angel officially on active duty in Britain. There are nearly five hundred in all, with the highest concentration in London. He runs through the list again. Of the sixty names, thirty-six are lowly Angels, seven Principalities, three Authorities, two Virtues and two Dominions. One name stands out: Sebastian Wilkes. Offering _him_ to Moriarty would remove not only the threat to Sherlock’s life, but the cause of the stain on his record as well. The more Mycroft thinks about it, the more Wilkes is the only rational choice - and the ability to make rational choices is the whole point of Detachment.

Sadly for Mycroft, he’s never fully internalized the doctrine. Even in extremis such as this, sacrificing one of his own - even an individual he loathes and despises - feels wrong. However, needs must. Steeling himself, he reaches for his phone.

He’s only two digits into Moriarty’s number when his secretary knocks on the door and pops her head around it. 

“There’s a Mr Wilkes to see you, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft is so startled that, in his hurry to kill his computer screen, he almost knocks over his cup of tea.

“Mycroft.” Wilkes says, comes into the room, hand outstretched. “Thank you for seeing me. It’s very generous of you. I’m afraid I was rather short last time we met.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft lies, rising to shake hands and silently praying his palm’s not damp with guilty sweat. “You’re an Authority. I simply assumed you were busy.”

Surprisingly, Wilkes doesn’t seize this opportunity to rub Mycroft’s nose in his inferior status. Instead, he says earnestly, “Mycroft. I need you to help me.”

“ _Me_? What could _I_ possibly do-”

“I’m investigating a Dominion,” Wilkes interrupts in a hushed tone. “I’m not at liberty to discuss it, but it’s a bad business. So bad that I’ve been assigned three Guardians. Management have told me to bring him in, but that’s easier said than done. He’s built up a massive network of Earthian villains he hides behind. Worse still, he’s been corrupting other Angels. Apparently, Amanda Gregory been working for him for years. D’you know her?”

Mycroft shakes his head, mind working overtime. Moriarty will never get past _three_ Guardians.

Wilkes sucks his teeth. “Very bright. Communications specialist. A Principality. Or, at least, she used to be. Calls herself an Avenger these days.”

“And you want me to help you with her _how_ exactly?” Mycroft asks carefully.

“Help? With her? Goodness, no!” Wilkes laughs. “No offence, Mycroft, but she’s out of your league. No - I need your assistance with another Dominion. And when I say ‘your’ assistance, I’m afraid I mean Sherlock’s.”

Realizing his jaw’s dropped, Mycroft swiftly closes it. “Sherlock’s?”

Wilkes clears his throats, and chuckles awkwardly. 

“The thing is, they’re rather alike. Highly intelligent mavericks. Like your brother, she has little respect for authority - or, indeed, Authorities. But Management want her brought back into the fold before she goes completely native and puts herself beyond redemption. I told them if anyone could do it, it was Sherlock. If you’re agreeable.”

“We live to serve,” Mycroft murmurs, with just the right amount of piety. A minute ago, he felt doomed. He feels much better now. Wilkes may not be an option as far as appeasing Moriarty’s concerned, but whoever this Dominion is most certainly _is_.

“Excellent!” Wilkes claps Mycroft warmly on the back. “Let me give you her name and where Sherlock can find her. Then perhaps I can concentrate fully on more important things.”

So saying, he takes takes out a pen and inscribes a name and address on Mycroft’s desk notepad. He tears the sheet off, folds it and presses it into Mycroft’s hand. 

“Tell him to be careful, Mycroft,” he says. “She’s an expert in persuasion. Knows every trick in the book.”

“My brother is immune to persuasion,” Mycroft assures him with a sniff.

“I’m serious, Mycroft. Whatever you may think of me, however foolish Sherlock may have been in the past, I … I greatly respect his abilities.”

For a moment, Mycroft is speechless. He’s always thought Wilkes had nothing but contempt for Sherlock. 

“Thank you,” he says, softly.

“No need to thank me,” Wilkes replies, crisp and business-like once more. “I’ve given Sherlock a job to do, that’s all. See that he does it.”

Mycroft nods. When Wilkes has gone, he unfolds the paper and spreads it out on his desk.

 _Irene Adler_ , it reads. _44 Eaton Square, SW1._  
 

________________

   
Sherlock is angry. He may be perched in his armchair, pretending to ‘watch telly’ like an ordinary Earthian after a hard day’s work, but inside, he’s seething with rage. Rage at John for having deceived him for so long; rage at himself for having seen John yet not _observed_ him.

 _Wrath_. Sherlock can’t imagine why he hasn’t embraced it before. To date, his enjoyment of the Seven Deadly Sins has been limited to a long-term relationship with Pride and the odd dalliance with Sloth. Oh, he’s indulged in the occasional flash of temper - it’s impossible to be exposed to the amount of idiocy he suffers daily and not feel profoundly irritated - but he’s never experienced anything like this. He feels as if he has wings - as if he were God Himself, imbued with a fiery certainty that whatever he chooses to do will automatically be righteous.

He’ll start by eliminating Moriarty from the picture, then focus his whole attention on the perfidious Nephilim currently sitting calmly at the table behind him. John has no idea what’s coming.

Stage One of Sherlock’s plan hinges on John leaving the flat, because Sherlock will need his gun. Unfortunately, John is engrossed in his pointless blogging, and seems determined to remain in the flat all night. 

It’s suspicious behaviour. John has a girlfriend. He should be off sating the voracious sexual appetite for which Nephilim are famous. He can’t possibly prefer just _sitting_ : he’s not a dog. Dogs are straight-forward and loyal - not practised, devious liars. 

If John were worthy of the emotion, Sherlock thinks he might hate him. He knows that’s irrational - he’s been lying to John every bit as much as John’s been lying to him - but it still makes him want to haul John away from his laptop and slam him into a wall, to _hurt_ him.

Oblivious, John looks up.

“Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?” 

The question switches a light on in Sherlock’s head: John has been far too interested in the missile plans all along. He could very well be in league with Moriarty. Sherlock decides he’d better lie.

“Yep. He was over the moon. Threatened me with knighthood. Again.”

The keypad under John’s fingers falls silent. 

“You know, I’m still waiting.”

 _Waiting for what?_ For a horrible moment, Sherlock fears John knows - knows that he’s an Angel; and knows that Sherlock knows what he is too. He gives a careful, noncommittal grunt.

“For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system,” John explains, “and you’d have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker.”

Yesterday, Sherlock would have thought the remark an innocent, playful one. Today he knows better. It’s _probing_. 

“Didn’t do you much good, did it?” he scoffs.

“No,” John admits, “but I’m not the world’s only consulting detective.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply and, at long last, John gets to his feet.

“I won’t be in for tea,” he announces. “I’m going to Sarah’s. There’s still some of that risotto left in the fridge.”

Sherlock hopes this means John will be gone within seconds, but instead, he lingers, waffling on about milk, and beans, until Sherlock so frustrated by his prevarication that’s tempted to forget about _proving_ John’s treachery first in favour of moving straight on to Retribution. 

But finally John departs.

Sherlock quickly switches his own computer on.

 _Found_ , he types. _The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The pool. Midnight._

He checks his watch. Twenty-five past eleven. He’ll grab John’s pistol from its hiding place, and in thirty-five minutes, the Moriarty diversion will be over and he can get started on John.  
 

________________

   
As he steps out into the street, John thinks he must be going mad. He really doesn’t want to trek all the way out to Pinner tonight - not even with the prospect of sex finally on the cards. When he pictures taking Sarah to bed, there’s none of the delicious tickle of anticipation he ought to be feeling. To be honest, he’d rather stay at home with Sherlock. With the pressure off for a while, it would be nice to spend a bit of companionable time together.

John looks up at their still boarded windows. It’s cold in the flat; he doesn’t want it getting any colder. He’s on the point of phoning Sarah to cancel, when he realizes Sherlock will probably ask why he’s changed his plans and he’s not sure he can - not to Sherlock’s face. He decides to stick with Plan A. He’ll go to Pinner and get laid. And stop yearning for Sherlock.

It’s fully dark as he heads towards the Tube, the day’s lingering mist turning the glow of the streetlamps into fuzzy orange balls.

Up ahead, a group of young blokes stumbles out of Reubens, very obviously the worse for drink. They’re unsteady of their feet, shouting obscenities and shoving each other. John can do without the hassle of trying to get past them, so he crosses the street. As he reaches the other side, a taxi pulls into the kerb. The driver winds the window down, and gestures for John to come closer.

“You wanna lift,” the man says.

“Not tonight, thanks. Going to Pinner. Getting the Tube.”

The driver grins and John gets a glimpse of uneven, ill-kept teeth. 

“Nah, you’re not getting it, mate. I ain’t asking - I’m telling.”

With that, one of the taxi’s back doors swings open, and a huge, muscled bloke jumps out. John leaps back out of reach, but another man - as tall and wiry as the other guy is squat and solid - rushes out from the shop doorway behind. He barrels into John, using his bodyweight to drive him in through the open door. Though John tenses every muscle and tries to resist, the momentum's just too powerful. He lands heavily on his knees, and the door frame cuts into his shins hard. Before he can right himself, someone’s grabbed the front of his jacket and is dragging him further in, whilst someone else seizes his legs and shunts him forward. Outnumbered and losing, John shouts for help only to have his face slammed into the seat. The huge guy slides in behind him, and shuts the door. As the cab pulls away, John feels a the sting of hypodermic needle in the side of his neck.

He brings his arms up, flailing, but his strength is already ebbing away. He hears someone laugh, sees the advert on the seat-back in front of him stretch and bend, and then the world drops away.

 

He comes to to the smell of chlorine and the gentle slap of water. His surroundings are unnaturally bright, every sound amplified and echoing. At first, he thinks it’s the effect of the sedative they gave him, but as his head clears, he realizes they’ve taken him to a swimming pool and that the wiry guy is yanking him into a Parka. 

“On your feet,” the other one says, with a cuff to the side of John’s head. “Don’t try anything.”

The blow has made John dizzier still. Too disoriented to even think of fighting back yet, he pushes up obediently from the plastic crate they’ve apparently had him sitting on. He can’t believe how much effort it takes.

“Keep that wrapped around you, ‘til you’re told otherwise,” the wiry one says, indicating the Parka. “Let it open before then, and we’ll shoot you. Somewhere painful.”

The thought of another bullet wound is frankly terrifying and, sick with dread, John snatches the edges of the coat and pulls them together. His body feels different - harder somehow, and thicker. It takes him a moment to realize that part of his new girth isn’t him at all. At the same time he notices the tell-tale smell of almonds - faint under the sharp whiff of chlorine, but distinctive nonetheless: they’ve got him wired up with Semtex. 

"Oh, god," John gasps, and his legs give way.

The kidnappers catch him before he hits the floor, then half-carry, half-drag him out to the poolside changing cubicles. He’d ask what they’re doing, but he already knows. He’s Moriarty’s latest victim; Sherlock’s final test.

“How're you feeling, Johnny boy?” a voice with an Irish accent asks, right in his ear, and now John feels the soft little bud of an earpiece. “I hope the boys weren’t too rough with you. Don’t want you keeling over before Sherlock gets here, do we?”

“Oh, god,” John gasps again but this time the fear’s not for himself but for Sherlock. And - _shit_ \- this is all John’s fault because he’s been stupid enough to get himself captured by a maniac obsessed with the man. “Oh, god.”

The voice in John’s ear bursts into laughter. 

“Oh, Johnny boy - did no-one ever tell you? He doesn’t exist! Your only hope is bowing down to _me_. Okay, you know the drill. Repeat everything I say, word for word. No adding anything, no leaving anything out. Sherlock will be here any minute, and we want to surprise him, don’t we? So you stay hidden in that cubicle until I tell you it’s time. Can’t you just picture how happy he’ll be to see you?”

John squeezes his eyes shut, because what he’s picturing is something else. Sherlock being angry with him. Sherlock being disappointed. Sherlock rolling his eyes at John’s utter stupidity. None of it’s good, and all of it’s excruciating, but it doesn’t even come close to how angry and disappointed John is with himself.  
 

________________

   
There are very few problems that Mycroft can't solve. It’s one of the advantages of having an enormously agile brain. Given enough time, he’ll find a solution. Sadly, time is in short supply. He intended phoning Moriarty the moment Wilkes left his office, but the Prime Minister called - in person - wanting to be briefed (yet again) (and with all the documentation) on the proposed amendments to the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act, and there was no way Mycroft could have refused without blowing his cover. Now, he has just fifteen minutes to make the call if he’s to meet Moriarty’s deadline.

Adopting a brisk pace, and glaring at anyone who dares so much as look as if they want to talk to him, allows him to make it back to his office without delay. He locks the door just as the bells chime quarter to midnight but at the very moment he takes out his mobile, it rings.

 _Lestrade calling_ , the screen announces.

Mycroft taps ‘Answer’, a heated injunction for the Fallen to clear the line ready on his lips but he doesn’t get the chance to utter it, because Lestrade starts talking breathlessly, his words a frantic tumble.

“Mycroft. Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. It’s Sherlock. Sherlock _and_ John. Moriarty’s got John. Anderson saw a couple of thugs bundling him into the baths on Clarendon Road about an hour ago. I sent Donovan to check on Sherlock at the flat, but he was gone. He’d been on his website - the one he’s been using to communicate with the bomber. Left him a message. Mycroft - he’s gone to the pool, too.”

Mycroft’s heart is in his throat. Oh God, what has he done?

“Have you sent anyone?”

“Not yet. Wanted your approval first. Should I? I can get a squad car there in five-”

“No. Absolutely not. If anyone sees you, Sherlock’s dead. I’ll deal with this myself.”  
 

________________

   
From the street, the pool looks empty and closed, but Sherlock knows it isn't and the knowledge gives him a warm glove of self-satisfaction. He loves knowing things that others don’t; adores the sense of superiority it inspires.

At the back of the building, there’s a small, service door by the bins - small enough to open easily, and mostly hidden from sight. With a final glance around to ensure no-one’s watching, he tries the handle. It’s open.

Beyond the door, there’s a gloomy corridor, where the smell of chlorine taints the thick, humid air. The sound of his own footsteps are loud in Sherlock's ears as he makes his way along it and his confidence wavers. He feels for John’s gun, tucked out of sight into his waistband at the small of his back. It’s there, solid and warm, and he lets out a huff of relief.

In front of him stands a pair of heavy, swing doors, each set with a pane of glass. Through these comes a soft shimmer of blue light: the pool itself. Sherlock pushes the doors open and steps through. The smell of chlorine is intense now, the echoes are louder.

All around the pool, fluorescent tubes cast sharp lines of light. It glints off the white tiled walls and splits into sharp, angled planes on the restless water. There’s no-one to be seen, no sound but the slap of the water and the hum of the lights, but something bleak seems to hang in the air, something bleak and desperate.

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present,” Sherlock says into the silence, his chest unpleasantly tight. “That’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles. Making me dance. All to distract me from this.”

He waves the memory stick in the air. There’s no answer, but Moriarty’s here. He _has_ to be.

A door creaks open, and Sherlock snaps his head around to look back over his shoulder. A figure steps out onto the poolside. A figure he knows all too well. It's _John_. Sherlock gapes.

The expression John’s wearing is like none Sherlock’s ever seen before, his stance square and defiant.

“Evening,” John says gruffly but all Sherlock can do is continue to stare at him uselessly. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock? Bet you never saw this coming.”

The room spins. ( _John_ is Moriarty.)

Sherlock can’t believe it. Doesn’t _want_ to believe it. For the first time in his life, he’s resisting the evidence of his eyes - and for the sake of a Nephilim who’s been lying to him since the day they first met. He can’t understand it, it makes no sense. What the hell is happening to him? He remembers he has John’s gun - the gun he planned to shoot Moriarty with - and feels sick.

Somehow he manages to make himself move. One step towards John, then another. Slowly, watching him, John opens his jacket - and Sherlock’s nausea becomes much, much worse. There are wires all over John’s body, great lumps of explosives strapped to his chest - and, dancing across them, the laser light of a sniper’s gun.

“What,” John says, “would you like me … to make him say … next? Gottle o’ gear, gottle o’ gear, gottle o’ gear.”

His voice catches, nearly breaks, and Sherlock knows he's afraid.

“Stop it,” he says firmly, but it’s an entreaty, not a command.

“Nice touch, this,” John goes on, though the words are clearly not his own. “The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart.”

(Oh, _God_.) Sherlock has made a horrific mistake. This isn’t about him; it never was. It’s always been John. Moriarty kills Nephilim and he knows that John's one.

John looks terrified, and seeing him so completely defenceless, Sherlock wonders how he could ever have wished him ill.

“Who are you?” he demands, directing the question everywhere but at John.

“I gave you my number,” a voice replies. “I thought you might call.”

Sherlock turns to see another figure approaching from the far corner of the pool. This one is pale-skinned and dark-haired, fine-boned and immaculately dressed. Sherlock can’t imagine why he’s picturing him in a tatty vest and low slung jeans, and seeing his forehead smeared with taurine cream. ( _Oh!_ ) It’s that simpering idiot Molly introduced as ‘Jim’- but now Sherlock takes a proper look, it’s clear he’s not an idiot at all. Just as Sherlock suspected, the Nephilim-killer's something from home, an Angel. He swallows. Eliminating him isn’t going to be easy.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket?” Moriarty asks, almost as if he’s read Sherlock’s mind. “Or are you just pleased to see me?”

Sherlock pulls out the pistol and levels it at his head. “Both.”

Moriarty’s response is strange and unsettling: trivial nonsense about Molly, and the hospital, and the lack of impression he made. Meanwhile, John stands stoically silent, frightened but dignified. Seeing him like that does strange things to Sherlock’s chest. Makes it burn and swell. Makes Sherlock long to hold John against it.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock," Moriarty says, snatching Sherlock attention back for himself. "Just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. No-one ever gets to me. And no-one ever will.”

“ _I_ did,” Sherlock reminds him, and cocks John’s gun with a harsh metallic click that ricochets off the walls.

“You’ve come the closest,” Moriarty concedes. “Now you’re in my way. So, take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off.” He smiles, and prowls nearer. “Although I have loved this – this little game of ours. Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

“People have died,” Sherlock reminds him.

“That’s what people- ” Moriarty begins calmly, then his eyeballs bulge, and his face twists, and the next word’s not so much a word as an eruption. “- DO!”

“I will stop you,” Sherlock promises, keeping his own tone even because he needs control over something.

“No you won’t,” Moriarty sing-songs back.

Sherlock glances at John. His face is ashen. 

“You all right?” Sherlock asks gently. It’s inexplicably painful when John fails to meet his eye.

Moriarty leans over John’s shoulder. 

“You can talk, Johnny-boy,” he says. As if he _owned_ him. “Go ahead.”

It’s all Sherlock can do to contain his anger but, in a perfect act of defiance, John simply holds his tongue and nods. Sherlock’s so proud of him, it feels as if his heart might burst.

“Take it,” he says and thrusts the memory stick towards Moriarty.

Moriarty eyes it greedily but John’s face contorts in anguish. For a split second, it makes no sense. (John’s a Nephilim. What does he care if a third-rate Earthian nation is rendered vulnerable to attack?) Then Sherlock realizes. (John hasn’t been lying at all. He has no idea what he is. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just an ordinary Earthian - a doctor and an ex-soldier.) A surge of protectiveness rises in Sherlock. To hell with the Sixth Commandment; he’ll _enjoy_ ending Moriarty.

Moriarty strolls nearer and plucks the stick from Sherlock’s hand. 

“The missile plans,” he breathes and closes his eyes, raising the stick to his lips almost reverently. Sherlock watches, holding his breath. (Is this it? Is it over?)

Moriarty’s eyes fly open again. He’s grinning. 

“Boring! I could have got them anywhere.” And with a shrug of indifference, he tosses the stick into the pool.

In a flash, John is on him, one arm around his neck, yanking his head back; the other pinning Moriarty’s. He looks up at Sherlock and cries, “Run!”

Sherlock couldn’t run if he tried. He’s stunned, amazed. John is offering to give up his own life to save him. Why?

Moriarty seems to think it’s funny. 

“Good!” he chuckles. “Very good!”

Struggling to keep hold of him, John bares his teeth, panting with effort.

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty,” he snarls, “then we both go up.”

“Isn’t he sweet?” Moriarty asks Sherlock calmly, ignoring him. “I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal - but, oops!” His reptilian eyes slide towards John. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.”

John’s fierce expression instantly changes. Sherlock sees him frown, then his eyes widen, and the grimly tight line of his mouth slackens in defeat. There’s no laser light on him any more which, Sherlock realizes, must mean-

“Gotcha!” Moriarty crows.

Reluctantly, John releases him. Moriarty brushes down his jacket, as if John’s touch had somehow defiled it, with an indignant, "Westwood!"

When Sherlock refuses to be impressed, Moriarty fixes him with a look. 

“D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?”

“Oh, let me guess. I get killed.”

“Kill you?” Moriarty pulls a face. “No. Don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you some day. I don’t wanna rush it though. I’m saving it up for something special. No, if you don’t stop prying, I’ll _burn_ you. I’ll burn the heart out of you.”

Sherlock thinks back to his laboratory, to his screaming test subjects, and even to Mycroft. 

“I have been reliably informed,” he says, softly, “that I don’t have one.”

Moriarty’s eyes are sly as they dart towards John. 

“But we both know that’s not quite true.” 

He pauses, letting the implication sink in, and Sherlock’s stomach goes cold.

“Well, I’d better be off,” Moriarty says. “So nice to have had a proper chat.”

It’s not over, Sherlock knows. How can it be with the terrible knowledge Moriarty now has? Not just that John’s a Nephilim, but what John means to him. He’ll be back.

“What if I was to shoot you now?” Sherlock demands. “Right now?”

Moriarty shrugs. 

“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.” He mimics one - badly - then grins. “ ’Cause I’d be surprised Sherlock. Really - I would.” He pauses. “And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Catch. You. Later,” Sherlock promises, watching him swagger away.

“No, you won’t!” Moriarty laughs, and pushes out through the doors.

Sherlock keeps John's gun trained on him until they bang shut. A heartbeat later, he’s in on his knees, in front of John, trying to free him from Moriarty’s rats' nest of wires and explosives. He can feel John's body trembling; hear him fighting for air. 

“All right?” he asks, desperately.“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” John says, but his tone is flat, shocked. “I’m fine.” 

(He’s not.) (He may never be fine again.) 

Sherlock straightens up again and tugs at John’s jacket, unsurprised to see that his own hands are shaking.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice seems to come from far, far away. “Sherlock!”

But Sherlock can’t listen to him - not yet, not now. He has to deal with the jacket. He takes a deep breath, rips it from John’s shoulders, and flings it with all his strength away across the tiles.

“Jesus,” he hears John breathe. “Christ.”

One look at him and Sherlock knows he’s going to fall. He’d catch him if he could, but Moriarty’s escaping; to be distracted by what he _wants_ to do would be the worst kind of self-indulgence. Sherlock rushes out into the corridor, determined to catch Moriarty. To catch him and kill him.

But the corridor is empty, and from the street outside comes a squeal of tyres: the sound of a car screeching away. Sherlock’s lost. He goes back to John.

John is crumpled on the floor, breathing heavily and trying to pull himself together. It’s too painful to watch. Sherlock paces away, annoyed with himself and out of his depth. He should have seen what Moriarty was from the start. Why the hell didn’t he see? What’s happened to his powers of observation, to his reason, to his _brain_?

“Are _you_ okay?” John asks.

Sherlock spins around, surprised by the question. No, he’s not okay. This is all beyond him. John offered to die for him. That’s something _saints_ do, not Nephilim. It’s not in their nature. 

“Yeah,” Sherlock lies. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Fine.”

John is looking up at him, still breathing heavily, and although Sherlock has no Semtex strapped to his body, he feels like he might explode anyway.

“That, uh .. thing that you, uh, did. That, uh … you offered to do,” he stammers, fighting the rapid pounding of his heart. “That was, uh … good.”

He means it as a thank you, but instead of smiling, John just looks sad. 

“I’m glad no-one saw that,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “You - ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”

( _Clothes_.) A vivid picture forms in Sherlock’s mind, none of it based on evidence or experience, and all of it Wrong.

“People, “ he says, awkwardly, “do little else.”

At last John smiles. Sherlock smiles back, dizzy with relief.

But their respite is short-lived. As John tries to get to his feet, a spot of red dances over his shirt, and Moriarty’s voice calls out, bright with laughter.

“Sorry, boys! I’m so changeable! It’s a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it’s my only weakness. You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

Sherlock looks down at John, and John - half-Earthian, half-Angel, all hero - instantly understands. He nods and Sherlock turns to Moriarty. 

“And probably," he says grimly, " _my_ answer has crossed _yours_.”  
 

________________

   
 _Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen …_

As his phone keeps ringing, Mycroft watches the seconds tick by, certain now that Moriarty won’t answer.

_… Twenty._

"Hello?"

Suddenly there’s a voice in Mycroft’s ear. 

“Moriarty?” Mycroft asks, hardly daring to believe it.

“Yes, of course it is,” Moriarty snaps back. “What do you want?”

“Your request. I believe I can meet it. There’s a Dominion, here in London. Her name is Irene Adler. She has … a reputation. As well as friends in exceedingly high places.”

For a moment there’s silence, and Mycroft fears Moriarty will reject the deal.

“SAY THAT AGAIN!” Moriarty's yell makes Mycroft’s eardrum ring. “Say that again, and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you.”

“Her name is Irene Adler,” Mycroft says, carefully enunciating each syllable. “She’s a Dominion, operating as a dominatrix. She’s well known in all sorts of circles - including the ones you spoke of. But you won’t get to her unless I help you and, as I’m sure you understand, that won’t happen unless you agree to terminate our previous arrangement.”

There’s another pause, during which Mycroft thinks he hears Moriarty say Sherlock’s name, then the Dominion is back again, his voice icy with menace. 

“If you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don’t, I’ll make you into shoes.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replies, with a much condescension as he can muster. “Then I think we have a deal.”  
 

________________

   
Sherlock feels jittery, his limbs restless, his stomach tight. There should have been a death. His own or Moriarty’s. Something - anything - to bring the awful tension to a head. It shouldn’t have fizzled out with Moriarty simply changing his mind. Sherlock almost regrets the lack of an explosion. Even after a ten-minute wait in the cold for a taxi, and a twenty-minute ride home, he’s still so wound up, he could burst.

John lets them into the flat, turning his key in the lock with a hand reddened by the cold. (He should’ve worn gloves.) (Why does he never wear gloves? Why doesn’t he take better care of himself?)

John steps into the sitting room and turns a slow circle as if to check everything’s the same as when he left, as if he has to reacquaint himself with it every last bit of it before he’ll truly believe the nightmare is over.

“Bloody hell,” he says. “It’s good to be home. For a while back there, I really thought-” His voice falters, and he shudders, biting his lip.

“You’re cold,” Sherlock says quickly, not because he thinks John needs an excuse for appearing traumatized, but because John does. “And you’re exhausted. Sit down.”

John gives him a weak smile. “I think I’ll go straight up-”

“No. Sit,” Sherlock says sharply, more sharply than he intended, but he can’t let John go yet. Not until he feels more settled. “You need tea. Sweet tea. It’s good for shock. It says so in all the books.”

“I’m not in shock,” John argues, but he drops down into his armchair anyway, and Sherlock fetches a blanket from his room - some horrible, knitted thing of Hudson’s he never uses but it’s warm, and soft to the touch. He lays it over John’s knees and stoops down to turn on the fire. John’s eyes are on him, he knows, and he’s trying to be strong but his hand shakes anyway when he reaches out to for the switch. Appalled, he hurries off to the kitchen, where he paces about wildly waiting for the kettle to boil.

It seems to take forever. (And the tea has to brew.) (And John could be hungry. Is he hungry? He’s always hungry … Damn.) Sherlock realizes he didn’t buy the milk he promised, or the beans. He’s got an Earthian head in the fridge but no milk and no beans! The only edible thing in the house is half a stale loaf of bread. (Wait! John likes toast and stale bread is fine for toast. Absolutely fine. Good, even.) Sherlock puts two slices into the toaster, and peers into the slots willing them to brown.

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice, so near, makes Sherlock start and spin around.

“What?!” He clears his throat. “I mean, what?”

John is half-leaning on the sliding doors for support. He looks tired and grim, and Sherlock bitterly regrets not having let him go straight up to bed, after all.

“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” John says, gesturing towards the mugs and the toaster as he comes closer. “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”

Sherlock snorts. “Don’t be absurd. How was it your fault? You’re not the one he was after. If it was anyone’s fault-”

“I was a soldier,” John insists. “And I let my guard down …” He pauses and Sherlock sees the muscles in his throat contract. “Jesus, Sherlock - I could’ve got us both killed.”

“Stop that.” Sherlock abandons his tea-making, in favour of using his greater height to loom over John and intimidate the self-recrimination out of him. “You couldn’t possibly have known-”

“Of course I could!” John yells. Eyes flashing, he raises his hands and claws at the air in frustration. “You said it yourself - five pips - and we’d only had four-” His hands find his hair and he tears at it.

“Stop,” Sherlock says again - softly because John’s in such obvious distress, but firmly too, because Sherlock really needs him to stop. He catches John by the wrists and lowers his hands to his sides.

He means to let go immediately but it’s the first time he’s touched skin, and this skin is John’s. It’s amazing. The data input alone is making his head spin - but the contact is doing other things, too: physical and emotional things beyond Sherlock’s power to define. Things that make him tighten his grip.

John starts at the increased pressure and looks up, his eyes wide with surprise, his lips slightly parted.

He’s the most wonderful thing Sherlock has ever seen and before he knows what’s he’s doing, he’s cupping John’s head in his hands and kissing him.

Touching John was amazing, but this is so much better, so much more. John’s lips, his mouth, the taste and the texture of him. The scent of his hair, the smell of his skin, the sheer carnal _heat_ of him. Sherlock can’t get enough of it fast enough.

(John. John. _John_.)

It’s the first time in his life that Sherlock's wanted his brain to shut up, but it won’t. (Why is John allowing this? He _must_ be in shock. He’s got a girlfriend, he’s not gay, he can’t possibly be enjoy-)

( _Oh!_ )

The energy in John’s body has shifted, and he pushes forward, matching Sherlock’s hunger with his own. He grabs Sherlock by the arms and kisses him back, so fiercely and so expertly, that Sherlock’s body slips out of his conscious control. His mind flails, his will-power melts, and he can’t seem to make his legs behave. (No-one can be expected to remain upright when their pelvis decides to take on a life of its own!) Sherlock loses his balance and stumbles back against the cold, solid front of the cooker. John closes the gap immediately - and so forcefully that the hob controls dig into Sherlock’s buttocks and the oven handle bites into his thigh. He hardly feels it. With John holding and kissing him, what little discomfort he registers burns quickly away. The expansive sensation Sherlock felt in his chest at the pool is back - only now, it’s far more intense, spreading through his body and turning rapidly to heat. His heart jumps at the thought of where this could lead; the pulse in his penis starts to thud. He’s never done this before, has no idea how to proceed, or what to do next, but his body’s racing ahead of him, shoving into John’s and rolling his hips. It must know what it’s doing because John is pressing back - eager, and greedy, and hard. Sherlock knows he’s on a dangerous edge but the thought he might Fall is exhilarating. He seizes John by the buttocks and yanks him even closer, lifting him up onto his toes until their erections align. They can’t stop now. Sherlock lowers his head and sucks on John’s throat.

“John,” he rumbles, into the soft skin there. “John - oh, _John_.”

John makes a low, incoherent sound, and tangles his hands in Sherlock’s hair. Mouth still on John’s throat, Sherlock sucks him harder. Bites. It makes John jerk in his arms, and his hips start to thrust. The movement tugs at Sherlock’s trousers, making him tingle and groan. They’re rushing towards something thrilling together, he knows, and when he closes his eyes, streaks of light zip past like shooting stars. He holds John tighter, grinds into him. Every little movement is exciting and robs him of breath.

But just as it feels like they’re getting somewhere, that whatever they’re chasing might soon be in reach, John suddenly frees himself from Sherlock's embrace.

“Bugger this,” he says. “I’m not a teenager. And neither are you.”

“What?” Sherlock feels a flutter of panic. (John’s pulling away! Why is he pulling away? Why?)

But John doesn't. He kisses him hard and puts an arm around his waist, whilst with his free hand, he unbuttons Sherlock’s trousers and opens his flies.

Sherlock shivers at the sensation of his trousers sliding down over his hips, and bucks in shock when John pushes a hand into his pants.

John stops. 

“Yes?” he asks, brows raised, face hopeful.

His hand is tantalizing close to Sherlock’s erection. Close, but quite not touching. Not yet. Sherlock's mouth goes dry.

“Yes,” he manages. "Yes."

He almost cries with relief when John smiles and closes his hand around his penis. When John draws his hand loosely up the length of it, he forgets how to breathe. There’s too much feeling bombarding his brain, emotions he can’t recognize or quantify. It’s so overwhelming, he can’t move.

(What happens next? What happens next?)

“Well, don’t just stand there,” John grunts, and bumps his groin pointedly into Sherlock’s thigh.

“I-I don’t know …” Sherlock shakes his head. “I’ve never …”

“ _Never_?” John sounds incredulous. “What? Not even at school?”

“Never.”

John frowns. “But you’re okay with this, yeah? Us, giving each other a hand?”

It's a ridiculous question but a gift. It allows Sherlock to remind John that, although inexperienced, he's far from stupid. He doesn't like feeling stupid.

“Your trouble,” he sneers, albeit a little shakily, “is that you see but you don’t observe.”

John grins in reply and slowly draws his hand up again, then down. It’s the most beautiful reward Sherlock could have hoped for. He gives another little moan, and closes his eyes.

“Hold that thought,” John mutters, and lets go.

The loss of his hand, of his touch, jolts Sherlock’s brain back into action and restores him to speech.

“What are you doing?” he demands. “Why have you stopped?”

“I haven’t stopped.” John is fumbling his own trousers undone. He shoves them down his legs, and does the same with his pants. “I’m just saving us some time.” 

Bewildered but intrigued, Sherlock allows John to manoeuvre him away from the cooker and turn him round, so that his back’s to the kitchen table instead. When John pushes up against him, all becomes clear and Sherlock drops easily into almost-sitting on the table. John tugs Sherlock’s trouser down further and moves in between his thighs to kiss him.

The warmth and the contact are blissful, and Sherlock purrs into John’s mouth with pleasure as they kiss, and kiss again.

“Right then,” John says, with a grin, when they break for air. “Time for a bit of military efficiency, soldier.”

Sherlock has no idea what he means, nor of why John’s decided he needs to spit into his own hand, but he’s eager to find out.

He doesn’t have to wait long. John winds an arm around his waist again and reaches down between them. Sherlock thrills at John’s touch, thrills again when he realizes John’s not just him stroking him but himself as well. It’s the closest they’ve ever been. It makes Sherlock ache.

John’s hold is different now - tighter, but less complete. But what it lacks in coverage is more than made up for by the solid heat of his erection which rubs against Sherlock’s deliciously as John pumps them fast and hard, twitching and jumping like his own. 

Sherlock drops his forehead to John’s shoulder with a gasp. He ought to be cataloguing, analysing, but his brain’s drowning in feeling, in want and need. The tension in his belly is getting tighter with every single push and pull of John’s hand. His nerve endings are singing with it and his skin’s on fire. He’s started to tremble and he's losing control.

John moves his hand faster. Grunts and kisses Sherlock on the lips. He’s shaking too, and gasping for breath.

“Come on,” he urges. “Touch me. Touch _us_.”

A shudder goes through Sherlock at his words. He hadn’t even realized he wanted to but - _God_ \- he does now. He slides his hand down between them, over flesh, sweat and hair, until he finds John’s. Its rhythm stutters for a moment, then stops, as they position of their fingers and adjust the tightness of their grip until it's firm and all encompassing. _Perfect_. When they start up again, together, the pace is determined and fast. John growls and swears, and plants open-mouthed kisses along the line of Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock clutches him closer. Buries his nose in his hair. Rubs, thrusts and arches until it’s all too much. His testicles pull up, his buttocks clench. Sensation races, electric, up and down every nerve. He drags in a breath and explodes.

For a little while afterwards, everything’s a soft, sated blur. Fragments of data float down like snowflakes - John’s labouring breathing, a final frantic burst of movement, then a cry - but they only start to make sense when Sherlock feels gentle fingers on his him, brushing the hair back from his sweat-sticky skin.

John is peering at him, scanning his face.

“All right?” he asks.

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Fine. Yes. You?”

John gives him a sheepish smile. “Pretty knackered, to be honest. What with all the running around, nearly dying and coming like a bloke half my age.”

He shows Sherlock his hand. The ejaculate it’s coated with glistens under the kitchen’s fluorescent light.

“Not all of that is yours,” Sherlock points out.

“Might as well be,” John says. “I’m totally spent.”

Sherlock examines him closer. His face is flushed and damp with perspiration, there are dark circles under his eyes and the lines around his mouth have pulled tight.

“You should go to bed,” he says. “Now.”

“Yeah.” John waddles away to the sink and pulls out a roll of kitchen paper from underneath. “Too tired for a shower even. I’ll just clean off a bit, then go up.”

Sherlock watches silently, as John wipes the stickiness from his hands and rubs down his belly and groin. When he’s finished, he scrunches up the used paper into a ball and tosses it into the bin. Finally he pulls up his pants and fastens his trousers. When he walks back across the room, he's straight-backed and square-shouldered. 

Sherlock marvels at how quickly he's recovered. He still feels totally unravelled himself.

John hesitates. Looks down at the floor.

"Uh, right, well, I'll be off, then. 'night."

"John -" 

"Good night, Sherlock," John says, and as he passes him by on the way to the door, he gives him an amiable pat on the arm.


	9. Interesting, That Soldier Fellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John tugs at the collar of his pyjama top, and twists his head to reflect the maximum amount of neck in the glass. And there it is: a dark, purple bruise, the size and shape of Sherlock’s mouth. John’s stomach flips over and goose-pimples race up his arms._
> 
>  
> 
> _“John Watson,” he groans, "you are a very bad man.”_

John crawls into bed, convinced he won’t sleep, but the sheets are cool and the pillow soft, and when he curls in on himself, it's sex and Sherlock that he smells of, not Semtex …

He wakes up surprised to be thinking of Mum. Slowly the dream comes back to him - not of Mum as she was at the end - when she was skin and bone and slipping away from him - but Mum in a bright summer dress on the day the day he joined up. There was sunlight on her hair as she hugged him and told him how proud she was. How he’d turned out the complete opposite of Dad.

He gets out of bed, and peers at his reflection in the mirror as he pulls on his dressing gown. He looks old, he thinks; tired and grey. A stark contrast to Sherlock’s dazzling vigour. Oh, God - Sherlock. A little wave of nausea catches John off guard. Oh fuck. Oh no. He _didn’t_ , he _can’t_ have … 

He leans in closer to the mirror and pulls down his lower lids, first one, then the other. He tells himself he’s trying to determine whether he feels sick because he’s sleep-deprived, or if he’s genuinely coming down with something, but he knows he’s lying. What he’s really doing is working up the courage to take look at the side of his neck.

Downstairs, there's movement. Running feet, the banging of a door. It sounds as if Sherlock just went out somewhere. Thank God. Whatever John’s about to discover, he’ll have time to deal with it by himself.

He tugs at the collar of his pyjama top, and twists his head to reflect the maximum amount of neck in the glass. And there it is: a dark, purple bruise, the size and shape of Sherlock’s mouth. John’s stomach flips over and goose-pimples race up his arms.

“John Watson,” he groans, "you are a very bad man.”  
 

________________

   
In its own opinion, the British Civil Service is second to none; in Mycroft’s, it’s second only to Heaven’s. In fact, there are so many similarities between them that, on a good day, he could almost believe he’s at home.

Today, however, is not a good day. Vestigial anxiety about Sherlock’s close encounter with Moriarty continues to swirl around Mycroft’s brain, rising like like swamp gas to choke off every productive thought. To make matters worse, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office has a new intern who, instead of buzzing industriously about Whitehall like the rest of the dark-suited drones, actually has the temerity to ask what business the Permanent Secretary to the Home Office might have in the FCO’s archive. Naturally Mycroft responds with a glare guaranteed to make strong men tremble but the tedious female does no more than retreat a couple of yards. She’s still watching him intently, even now, as he goes through the Korean election files. Her continuing scrutiny is playing havoc with what’s left of his ability to concentrate and when he realizes he’s read the same page three times, he closes the file. He’ll have to come back when the annoying little Earthian’s employed elsewhere … Assuming she is one - an Earthian, that is, and not a Management spy. The possibility she could be makes Mycroft’s blood run cold. He returns the file to its box and departs at what he hopes is a dignified but innocent pace. The intern’s eyes track him all the way to the door. 

It’s a relief to get back to his office. His chair is comfortable, his desk sold and secure. He exhales a long sigh, then opens his inbox. It contains a message from Management.

 _Your clearance has been downgraded_ it reads. _Henceforth, your access to The Seven is limited to Gabriel (in the first instance) and Michael (in extremis)._

Mycroft stares at the words in horror. Management must have heard of his dealings with Moriarty. If he’s not careful, it won’t just be his clearance that gets cut. It’ll be his rank, his career, his entire future. Is this why that so-called intern had the audacity to challenge him? Does she, too, know his tenure as a Principality may be about to expire? He plants his elbows on his desktop, drops his head into his hands and thinks longingly of cake.

“For goodness sake,” he chides himself, “you’re an Angel. _Think_.”

At first, he comes up with nothing, no way of preventing his inevitable fall from grace, but at last something stirs. He raises his head.

“If they’d decided to demote you," he says out loud, "the deed would already be done. There’s time … Time to prove their misgivings wrong.”

He needs to give them something, something they can’t get for themselves … How did Lestrade phrase it? _Two on ice_. Mycroft smiles and leans into his deskphone.

“Anthea,” he says. “I need a car.”

“Of course. Where to, sir, and when?”

“Bart’s Hospital. Now.”  
 

________________

   
Sherlock’s heart sinks as he bursts into the lab. Stamford is nowhere to be seen and, in his place, there’s Molly Hooper, carefully adding drops of fluid to each of a row of Petri dishes. (Testing for bacteria. Impossible to tell which with the naked eye at this stage.) Her face lights up when she sees him, making Sherlock’s heart sink further.

“I want Mike,” he says.

“He’s, uh, got an outside appointment?” she says, for some reason turning what should be a statement into a question. “Can I help?”

She smiles hopefully. The kind of smile that involves a lot of twitching lips and blinking eyes. (In short, the smile of the terminally Attached.) Fleetingly, Sherlock wishes John would smile at him like that, but he quickly decides he prefers John’s gaze steady and unflinching - like it was last night - and his hand tightens reflexively around the used kitchen paper in his pocket as the pulse in his groin decides to thump.

“When, uh-” He swallows. “When will Mike be back?”

Molly frowns. “Not sure. Eleven? Twelve? But really, Sherlock, whatever you need, I can-”

She’s cut off by the door opening, and Mycroft comes striding in, his stupid umbrella in his stupid hand. Molly blinks. Sherlock glares.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he demands.

“I might ask you the same,” Mycroft returns, eyes drawn inevitably to the tight ball of Sherlock’s fist in his jacket pocket. “Where is Stamford?”

“Uh - I just told Sherlock,” Molly offers, although Mycroft hasn’t yet bothered to spare her a glance. “Mike’s gone out.”

Now Mycroft does turn to look. He sizes her up in milliseconds. Sherlock can see the deductions slotting into place with each tiny upturn of the corners of his brother's supercilious mouth.

“Miss Molly Hooper. Second class degree in pathology from a mid-ranking university - somewhere _up North_ , at a guess.”

“You never guess,” Sherlock mutters, but Mycroft ignores him and walks over to where Molly’s standing. He lifts one of the Petri dishes from the table.

“Miss Hooper,” he says, peering into it. “You may leave. Consider the rest of the morning an impromptu holiday.”

“But-” Molly shoots a look at Sherlock.

“ _Now_ , Miss Hooper,” Mycroft says in just the right tone to make her start, and he follows through with a cold-eyed stare that makes her squeak, drop her pipette and run.

As the sound of the second set of double doors closing dies away, Sherlock braces himself. He knows what’s coming.

“Show me," Mycroft says.

“Show you what?”

“In your pocket. Show me.”

Sherlock takes out the kitchen paper and thrusts it defiantly in Mycroft's face. Mycroft makes a point of not taking it.

“Oh, Lord,” he sighs. “Not the penis experiments again.”

A flush rises in Sherlock’s cheeks but he clamps his mouth shut. 

“Oh. I see.” Mycroft says, and he smiles. (Like a shark.) “You want to play deductions.”

“I really don’t-”

“The paper in your hand has a GSM of sixteen point five. Uncrumpled, it would measure approximately twelve inches wide by fifteen inches long. It _could_ be a man-size tissue but a sheet of kitchen roll is more likely. Yes - look - it has a red and green fruit-based motif. Kitchen paper isn’t exactly your area, is it? Therefore it was purchased by Doctor Watson. Please tell me you were in your room when you used it and not the kitchen.”

“Shut up!” The flush on Sherlock’s cheeks is starting to burn. 

“The question is,” Mycroft continues, “why bring it here, to Bart’s? You could test for electrolytes, sugar or proteins at home: you have more than enough chemicals and a perfectly serviceable microscope. Given the _source_ of your sample, one might be tempted to think you have concerns about your fertility but you've allowed your sample to dry out, rendering it useless for assessing sperm motility.”

Any moment now, Sherlock’s going to burst into flame. In the circumstances, it’s an appealing prospect.

“Which leaves DNA testing,” Mycroft goes on. “And yet Management has had your entire genome on open file since you were eighteen.”

Sherlock can’t stop himself from watching Mycroft’s face as the final pieces of the puzzle drop into place. First there’s the smug smile of knowing. Then the puffed up chest and raised chin of someone who’s about to make a pronouncement. And finally, a lot of eye-widening, jaw-tightening and nervous tics as the implications of Mycroft’s realization sink in. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” he whispers. “What have you done?”

Sherlock hesitates. He doesn’t want to tell Mycroft about any of it. (On the other hand, Mycroft is Mycroft. There’s no equipment he can’t get hold of, no cost too great … not for his _brother_.)

“It’s not what you think,” Sherlock says. “ _John’s_ not what you think.”

“Enough!” Mycroft hisses, and seizes Sherlock by the elbow. “We will discuss this elsewhere.”  
   
Fifteen minutes later (Mycroft must finally be taking regular exercise), they’re standing side by side on the Embankment, staring across the Thames at the grey angles of a construction site against the grey billows and smudges of a rain-laden sky. Above them, a black-headed gull squawks in protest against the strengthening wind, and Sherlock turns up his collar.

“I worry about you,” Mycroft says, after what seems like an eternity.

“Don’t. You can’t afford any more wrinkles and there’s no need.”

“There’s every need. You’re losing focus, forgetting why we’re here, and as for your observational skills-”

“There’s nothing wrong with my observations skills.”

“No?” Mycroft turns, brows raised. “Have you even registered my new suit?”

Sherlock starts. (Didn’t.) (Should have.) He looks more closely as Mycroft fails to resist the urge to preen. His suit is fine wool, mixed with thirty - no, _thirty-five_ percent cashmere. Charcoal grey, with a fine, ash-grey pinstripe.

“Looks expensive,” Sherlock says, only to immediately wish he’d opted for a less petulant tone.

“It was. And you didn’t notice it. Conclusive proof that your focus is impaired. Which is hardly surprising, given that most of your conscious mind is occupied with John Watson. You’ve become Attached.”

Sherlock knows it’s the truth. He couldn’t sleep for thinking about John, couldn’t settle to work instead. Every thought came back to ‘Will there be more?’ and ‘When?’ But knowing it’s the truth doesn’t make it any more palatable. He’s an Angel, a scientist. He doesn’t do Sentiment. What matters is his _brain_. And if he can’t think straight, how will he be able to protect John when Moriarty tries again? Feeling like the worst sort of idiot, he starts to pace. 

“How do I make it stop?”

Mycroft sighs. “I only wish I knew.”

“I’m not talking about brotherly love,” Sherlock says. “This is …” Words fail and he shakes his head.

“Eros?” Mycroft supplies, with a shudder. “Want? _Desire_?”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.

“You _can’t_ go on with this,” Mycroft says, his tone final. “You absolutely cannot. You know the law. You know what happens to Angels who Fall. You need to get rid of him. Either he’ll have to move out of 221B or you will.”

Sherlock tries to imagine it. Pictures himself, bags packed, flying down Hudson’s stairs, as if the Devil himself were after him, only to turn and look back at John’s lonely figure at the top of the stairs - an innocent and unsuspecting Nephilim - and his heart twists.

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely. “He won’t be safe.”

“Of course he will.”

“Moriarty _kidnapped_ him,” Sherlock spits because Mycroft’s sang-froid is too much to bear. “He covered him with _Semtex_. You call that ‘safe’?”

Sherlock expects some kind of horrified reaction. If not to the threat to John’s life, then to his own - Mycroft has always been overprotective - but Mycroft scarcely blinks. 

“Moriarty?” he asks, casually examining his nails.

“Consulting criminal,” Sherlock says. “He runs a worldwide network dealing in forgery, insurance fraud and murder. But I’ve been getting too close, threatening his little empire, so last week he decided to challenge me. Five puzzles. The first four were easy but the fifth … The fifth involved John. Last night, Moriarty was _this close_ to killing him.”

Mycroft laughs.

“This ‘Moriarty’ isn’t interested in John. He’s interested in _you_. If John is in danger at all, it’s because of his association with you. On his own, he’s just another ordinary little Earthian.”

“No, he not!” The words are out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop them.

“That’s just your Attachment talking,” Mycroft tuts.

“I wish it were,” Sherlock says. “He’s a Nephilim, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s jaw drops. “ _John_ ’s one? I mean, he's a _Nephilim_?”

“Yes. A Nephilim. Half-Earthian, half-Angel. They exist. Moriarty kills them and John is one.”

“Whatever makes you think that?” 

Mycroft’s pupils have dilated, he’s blinking rapidly and his breathing has accelerated.

“He was a captain,” Sherlock says. “And a surgeon. ‘High-placed’ - don’t you see? His stamina is enormous for an Earthian and he has a much better brain. He’s even left-handed!”

Mycroft frowns. “You’ll need better proof than that.”

“Give me time,” Sherlock says. “I only found out yesterday. That’s what _this_ is for!” 

He takes the crumpled kitchen paper out again and waves it in Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft looks at it for a moment, then his eyes narrow.

“Does John know you have that?”

“No.”

”Did you drug him to get it?”

“No!”

“How fresh is it?”

“Last night … the early hours of this morning,” Sherlock says, without thinking.

“You were _there_.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer but Mycroft knows (he always knows) and his mouth twists in revulsion, exposing the curl of his tongue (and giving him the look of a bad-tempered tortoise).

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock! What were you thinking? There are more hygienic ways … _Oh_. You weren’t thinking at all. You were _feeling_. Does he know? That he’s a Nephilim?”

“No.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“No.”

“Good,” Mycroft says. “We need to be sure before you do. We don’t want to shock him unnecessarily, nor do we want to raise false hopes.”

“‘We’?”

“Of course. You’re my brother, and you’re in too deep. You need my help, or we’ll both end up being hauled over the coals. I’ll take _that_ -”

He makes to take the kitchen paper from Sherlock’s hand, but Sherlock pulls it back, out of reach.

“Don’t be stupid,” Mycroft snaps. “Give it to me. I have access to far better facilities than you. One of the perks of the job.”

Sherlock hesitates. When Mycroft gets the results of any analysis, he’ll see the paper bears more than one set of DNA, and the lecturing will be beyond tedious. Then again, if John is half-Angel, being with him may not even qualify as a Fall …

Sherlock holds the paper out. Mycroft reaches for it. And a gust of wind whips it away, over the Embankment wall, and out over the Thames. They watch in horror as it rides the buffeting wind for a moment, then drops into the water.

“Stupid,” they accuse each other in unison.

“What do we do now, brother dear?” Sherlock says bitterly. “Get another sample?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

“Absolutely not. You do what you’re good at. You investigate his background. Gather data. And, if you won’t move out of the flat, for God’s sake, keep your distance from him until we know. If Management get wind of you Falling, we’ll be sent home, and who will protect John from Moriarty then?”

“What about you?”

“I will do something about Moriarty.”  
 

________________

   
John’s thoughts are running wild. He likes Sherlock, of course he does, and, obviously, he finds him attractive. It’s just that he never thought that anything would happen between them. Not really.

He's made himself another cup of tea but he can’t drink this one either. He’s on tenterhooks. Every creak of a floorboard, every metallic click from the central heating makes him jump. Where the hell has Sherlock got to, anyway? John needs to see him, to check that nothing fundamental has changed. He tells himself he’s an idiot. One shared wank doesn’t constitute a relationship. It doesn’t even constitute an agreement to start one. It’s just something blokes do to take the edge off, when there’s nothing better. Everyone knows that.

Doubt stabs at John’s gut. What if it’s the one thing Sherlock _doesn’t_ know? Because if he’s never tossed off with a mate, not even at school … Oh, God. He’s a _virgin_. John doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to him before. Apart from the whole Sherlock being gorgeous thing. John doesn’t do virgins. It’s too complicated, too meaningful and … _shit_!

He empties his mug into the sink and goes back into the living room. It’s full of Sherlock. Not just his things, but the scent of him and, there on the wall - thanks for that mad assemblage of Post-It notes, newspaper clippings, photos and maps - a glimpse into this mind. His brilliant, beautiful, innocent mind. John bites his lip. When he's allowed himself to think about it at all, Sherlock’s always been in total control, knowing exactly what to do to take John apart. He's the one who initiates. He's the one who takes the lead. None of it is ever John’s fault. But Sherlock’s clearly got no better idea of how to have great sex with another bloke than John has. Yeah, they’d be brilliant on the _theory_ \- John’s a doctor, Sherlock’s a genius, they both know what goes where - but trying to put it into practice would be a disaster. John cringes as he pictures them fumbling about, getting it wrong, and hurting each other. _Disappointing_ each other. No, it’s better to stay as they are - just friends - and not ruin everything. As soon as Sherlock gets back, John will tell him exactly that.

So he waits. And waits. And gets increasingly worried. Moriarty’s still out there. Anything could have happened. Sherlock could be dead. John looks out of the window repeatedly, and checks his watch. When he spots a straggle of kids from St Vincent’s making their way home down Baker Street, and there's still no sign of Sherlock, he decides to bite the bullet and give him a call. 

There's no answer. Full of dread now, John tries sending a text. 

_Where are you? J_

He gets an almost instant reply.

_Working._

John’s not sure how he feels about that. Relieved that last night hasn’t made Sherlock all gushing and clingy? A little offended at his tone?

_Will you be home for dinner? J_

_No._

_So, when WILL you be back? J_

_Late._

John doesn’t bothering answering. He doesn’t need to. Clearly, he’s been worrying about nothing.  
 

________________

   
John has been in bed for hours by the time Sherlock finally comes home. He hears him run up the stairs to the flat, then open and close the living room door, but there’s no sign of him next morning. Sarah rings shortly before nine, sending John into a flurry of guilt: he’d completely forgotten he was on his way to see her when Moriarty’s henchmen struck. She goes very quiet when he tells her what happened. When he’s finished, she says she feels bad now because she only phoned to ask if he could come in because she’s short-staffed, and that she’ll understand if he’s not up to it so soon after such an ordeal. He tells her he is.

It’s nice being at work, being useful. He doesn’t see much of Sarah, but when he does, she’s perfectly pleasant, if rushed off her feet. It’s a relief to know she’s not harbouring any grudges. On the other hand, he _was_ abducted and nearly killed. As excuses go for standing someone up, that one’s pretty flawless. All the same, he feels he owes her and when she asks him cover to take Jenny Draper’s evening surgery, he’s only too happy to agree.

He gets home at nine-thirty. Sherlock is ensconced in his chair by the fire, hands pressed together under his chin, eyes glazed, and very still. John can’t help feeling relieved. He was dreading having to _talk_ , and if Sherlock’s retreated to his Mind Palace he may not utter a word for days. By which time, he’ll probably have totally deleted any recollection of what they did in the kitchen: it’s what he does with useless information.  
 

________________

   
As John sits down to breakfast, he realizes it’s been five days since Sherlock last spoke to him. Which is fine. He knows what Sherlock’s like, and John’s been pretty busy with work, anyway. He’s got another full day at the surgery today - which is why he’s fortifying himself with toast this morning as well as porridge.

All of a sudden, Sherlock floats into the kitchen, wearing nothing - as far as John can tell - but his blue silk dressing down and the look of a man who’s just awoken from a deep, deep sleep.

“John,” he murmurs, blinking. Then, as he takes in John’s jacket and tie, his focus sharpens. “You’re going out.”

“Yeah.” John smiles because - _God_ \- it’s good to be seen again. “Well deduced.”

Sherlock takes the cafetière down from its shelf. “Where are you going?”

“Work. Sarah … she, uh, needed someone.” John feels oddly uncomfortable making this admission, although he can’t think why.

Sherlock sighs. “Dull.”

He sets the cafetière down on what little space is to be found on the table amongst his chemistry equipment and instantly John’s brain flashes back to Sherlock sitting in that exact same spot, pants and trousers half-way down to his knees.

John takes a deep breath. He can’t pretend it never happened.

“Look, uh, Sherlock - _mate_ \- are you all right?”

Sherlock frowns at the coffee grounds he’s shaking into the cafetière’s glass jug.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Uh, well, you know. The other night.”

Sherlock turns, his face completely blank.

“You … we kissed,” John stammers, embarrassment prickling his armpits. “And-”

“Oh. Yes. _That_.” Sherlock nods and purses his lips. “I must admit, at first, I was surprised, but I quickly recognized it for what it was: fear-induced adrenalin arousal. We were relieved to be alive but temporarily robbed of the verbal and cognitive skills with which to express that, leading us to seek physical release instead. All very normal. All very human.”

John stares. To be so calm - so _unmoved_ by what they did is more like the very opposite of human to him. John’s been turning himself inside out with guilt about it.

Sherlock lifts the cafetière again and gives John a dazzling smile. “Coffee?”

“Uh - no, thanks.” John shakes his head. “I’ve, uh, gotta run.”

And he does.  
 

________________

   
Sarah pops into John’s room, just as he’s finishing up for the night.

“I’m starving,” she announces. “D’you want to grab something at the Feathers?”

Given the choice between a meal out in a lively but civilized pub, or cooking himself beans on toast at home, to John’s mind, there’s only one option.

“I’ll get my coat,” he says.

They have a nice meal and a nice evening. They don’t kiss. Which John decides is probably just as well. Any comparisons he might have made between Sarah and Sherlock would have been worse than odious.

He goes home alone.  
 

________________

   
John’s been filling in for Jenny Draper for five days but she’s due back next week, which means his time at the surgery is coming to an end - for now, at least. The thing is, John can’t help thinking the way his relationship with Sarah fizzled out must count against him. She hasn’t promised to call on him next time she needs someone and the uncertainty is a bit depressing. He doesn’t want to go back to being financially dependent on Sherlock - especially not now. He calls up his next patient’s notes, wondering morosely how close he is to seeing his last.

His deskphone buzzes. It's Sarah.

“John? Have you got a minute? I wanted a quick word.”

John tries not to get his hopes up. “Sure.”

Moments later, his door opens and Sarah comes in, carrying a large white envelope.

“I’m attending the myocardial infarction conference in New Zealand at the end of the month. My sister was supposed to be coming with me, but she’s got flu. So I’ve got spare tickets. If you want to come. It’s all funded, and cardiology _is_ one of your fields so …”

John’s tempted - an old friend from med school lives in Auckland now - but he hesitates.

“We could make a bit of a holiday of it,” Sarah suggests. “Do a bit of walking.”

She hands John the envelope. The conference brochure alone is enough to make him lick his lips - there are some really big name speakers listed - but it’s the handful of tourist brochures that sells it: photos of big skies and vast, empty beaches. It’s just what he needs: space, peace and room to unscramble his head.

“Why don’t you check with Sherlock first?” Sarah says. “You can let me know on Monday.”

John decides against saying he doesn’t need Sherlock’s permission and instead tells her he will.  
 

________________

   
In fact, John's plan was to tell Sherlock nothing about the trip at all, until the last possible moment, but Sherlock appears in his doorway, just as John’s hunting through the box under his bed for his passport.

“Bloody hell - d’you have to creep about like that? What d’you want?”

“I heard swearing. What d’you need a passport for?”

“Work trip,” John says. “Big cardiovascular conference. I could do with brushing up my skills. You don’t mind, do you?”

Sherlock’s brow furrows and his nose wrinkles, as if his answer might be too complicated for an idiot like John to follow and he’s trying to simplify it, but after a moment, his expression clears.

“Mind?” he asks, brightly. “Why would I mind?”  
 

________________

   
John’s taxi leaves at four. Sherlock stands at the window and watches the cabbie load his luggage into the boot, following the taxi’s progress down Baker Street until it vanishes from sight. He stares at the space it leaves behind for a moment, then rubs his hands together briskly and bounds up John’s stairs.

With John out of the way for a couple of weeks, Sherlock will be able to investigate his background properly, without the need to hide what he’s doing and, thanks to John’s passport hunt, Sherlock knows he keeps all his important paperwork in a box file under his bed. He pulls it out and goes through it. There’s an annoying lack of medical records amongst the certificates and bank statements but at last he finds something useful: an A5 booklet embossed with the words ‘King Edward Grammar School, Chelmsford’.

(Chelmsford.) (John’s home town.)

Encouraged, Sherlock rifles through the rest of the papers, and discovers an address: 57 Boswell Drive.

(There’s no time like the present.)

Sherlock packs a change of clothes in a bag and hurries down to the street to flag down a taxi to Liverpool Street station.  
 

________________

   
Half an hour into the in-flight movie, Sarah falls asleep. Half an hour later - right at the part where medical procedures on screen are so ridiculously inaccurate, John’s started chuckling - her head lolls onto his shoulder and she nuzzles into him. He stops chuckling. He doesn’t want to wake her and besides, he likes the weight of her head on him, even if it doesn’t mean anything. Her hair is like silk where it brushes his cheek, and she smells of jasmine and rose. Her body is warm against his, and soft. He could have had all this for real if he hadn’t stood her up that night. Probably. He wonders how long it might have been before she slept with him, if only he’d managed to keep their relationship going. Quite a long time, probably. Sarah’s not the one night stand type. She’s looking for true love and commitment; a husband and family. Mum would have loved her.

One of the stewards is pushing the drinks trolley up the aisle again. He catches John’s eyes and the trolley rattles to a halt.

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine,” John says, as quietly as he can, but his voice wakes Sarah up anyway.

At first she doesn’t seem to know where she is. When she realizes, she pulls away quickly away, looking sheepish.

“Sorry.”

“No, It’s fine.”

Sarah straightens her thin cotton top - unconsciously drawing John’s attention to the outline of her bra - and rubs her eyes.

“Oh, God,” she groans, touching the side of her mouth. “I was _drooling_ \- and I’ve made your shirt wet. I’m so sorry. You should have woken me up. I’m so sorry.”

“Didn’t like to. You looked so peaceful.”

She smiles, dimpling her cheeks. “You’re very kind.”

“And handsome,” John says. “Don’t forget handsome.”

Sarah rolls her eyes but she’s still smiling as she smooths her hair back into place with a hand.

“And a brilliant doctor,” John adds.

“Plus you play the clarinet,” Sarah reminds him, and twists a strand of hair about her fingers.

“One day, I’ll show you what else I can do,” John promises.

She looks up at him from under her lashes. “I’ll look forward to it.”

John decides he does want a drink, after all. Something light and bubbly. The next couple of weeks could be very good indeed.  
 

________________

   
When Mycroft agreed to help Sherlock with his Watson problem, he hadn’t imagined it would involve secret rendez-vous in cafés, crammed in amongst the hoi polloi with their chain-store clothing and screaming offspring. As if that weren’t bad enough, the air around him is thick with the stench of fried eggs and the sweat-like reek of baked beans.

However, needs must. If Watson truly _is_ a Nephilim, his value to Management will be beyond even Mycroft’s ability to calculate. Which is why he has to proceed with caution. 221B, the house on Smith Square and even Mycroft’s government office could well be bugged. Therefore any further discussion regarding John must take place elsewhere: if Management were to learn the content of today’s meeting before Mycroft is ready to reveal it, the repercussions could be ghastly. Not that that makes the café experience any the more palatable. Mycroft flinches as a snotty-nosed child goes careening past, another grubby infant in hot pursuit, jam-smeared fingers perilously close to Mycroft’s Reiss Garda trousers. Across the room, a woman with dirty blond hair and greasy skin - the mother, presumably - lurches up from her chair like a whale from the depths and bellows at them, promising all kinds of blood-curdling retribution if they don’t _Sit the fuck down now!_.

Mycroft checks his watch again: Sherlock is late. Well, of course he is. Having to ask for help must have been a huge blow to his pride; naturally, he can’t allow himself to be punctual.

A dangerously obese Earthian male in chef’s whites - or _greys_ , in this case - lumbers over from the serving counter and slaps two mugs of tea down on Mycroft’s table. Some of it sloshes out onto the surface where it forms wet little halos around the cruet set and the plastic sauce bottles. Mycroft offers the man a thin smile and, the minute his vast back is turned, mops up the spill with a cheap paper napkin. When he looks up again, the café door has opened and Sherlock is striding in. All heads turn as he walks over - his extravagant manner has always demanded attention, and Earthians are pathetically easy to impress. Sherlock glowers at them all and sweeps past.

“How was your trip?” Mycroft asks brightly.

Sherlock pulls out the chair opposite and descends into it like a storm cloud about to break. 

Mycroft frowns. “Don’t tell me the sister refused to see you?”

Sherlock snatches one of the mugs of tea and shovels in a couple of angry spoonfuls of sugar from the battered metal bowl on the table between them. 

“On the contrary.”

“And?”

“And she’s no Nephilim. She’s unemployed and unemployable, as well as being a drunk.” Sherlock stabs the teaspoon back into the sugar bowl and meets Mycroft’s eyes defiantly. “Go on, then. Say it. I know you’re dying to.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Say what exactly?”

“That you were right. That I’ve been deluding myself, and that Moriarty only kidnapped John as a way of getting to me and that if I want to keep him safe, I’ll have to throw him out and never set eyes on him again. That’s what you want, isn’t it? What you’ve wanted all along.”

“I think you’ve arrived at a theory before knowing all of the facts. An approach which I’m sure I’ve heard you describe as sloppy, illogical and doomed to failure.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. 

“What are you talking about? Harriet Watson is a drunk - and a violent drunk at that. Just like her father. D’you know he used to come home from his sessions at the pub and beat his wife and children on a regular basis? Not exactly Angelic behaviour, that.”

Mycroft presses his lips together and rubs at a speck of dirt on the table-top, looking suitably distressed. 

“There is something to that effect on file, yes.”

“And I’m betting there’s something about Henry Watson’s parents too, isn’t there? Place of birth, medical records … All of it proof that John’s father was a very ordinary Earthian - albeit a particularly hateful example of the species.”

Mycroft nods again. 

“Indeed.” He pauses, drawing the moment out. “But, you’re overlooking the possibility that John’s mother-”

“John’s mother died of multiple organ failure,” Sherlock says. “Angels don’t have defective organs.”

“No,” Mycroft agrees. “But you misunderstand me. I meant it’s entirely possible that John’s mother strayed - that John is not Henry Watson’s son, whatever it may say on his birth certificate. There was an interval of five years between Harriet’s birth and his, during which time, Henry was arrested eleven times for drunkenness and twice for gross indecency under section thirteen of the Sexual Offences Act. Given Henry’s proclivities, I can’t imagine Margaret Watson would have been keen to share his bed - or, indeed, he hers.”

Sherlock has gone very still. 

“You mean …” He swallows. “You mean you think John really could be a Nephilim, after all?”

Mycroft leans across the table, and pats him on the forearm. 

“Let’s just say I’m not ruling it out,” he says and casts an eye about the café, grimacing at the state of its clientèle. “He’s certainly stands out from the common herd.”

“So …” Sherlock is frowning, blinking rapidly. Mycroft doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so uncertain. “You think I should ..?”

“Keep sharing a flat with him? I do. In fact, it may be the only way of preventing his being murdered. From what you’ve told me, James Moriarty has an appalling track record in that respect.” Mycroft sighs. “It would appear the old adage is true: when an Angel goes bad, he is the worst of criminals. I shall do what I can to protect John from him, as well.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

Mycroft’s afraid he’s overplayed his hand. He exhales slowly, and composes himself. 

“Because I find myself in need of a favour.”  
 

________________

   
Mycroft has an early morning appointment in Savile Row for a tuxedo fitting. In his position, attending the theatre is a quasi-public appearance and it would create a poor impression to turn up improperly attired. When the Prime Minister first suggested he represent the government at the opening of 'national treasure' Matthew Michael’s new play, he demurred, saying he had no wish to tread on the Culture Secretary’s toes, but he needed _something_ to persuade Sherlock to accept his help in protecting John. A declaration of brotherly love would only have met with contempt.

Gieves and Hawkes is a charming establishment - light, airy and calm. Mycroft is plied with Earl Grey tea and lemon thins whilst a beautiful young man runs a tape measure over his shoulders, down his arms and up his inside leg so skilfully that Mycroft is barely aware he’s even there. The deference, order and understated quality is an exquisite balm to Mycroft's Earth-weary senses and it’s with no little reluctance that he quits the shop and descends the three shallow steps onto the street where his car is waiting. As he walks towards it, another Jaguar pulls up, and a familiar figure steps lightly out.

“Mycroft,” Wilkes says, offering his hand as their paths cross. “This is an unexpected pleasure. How are you?”

Mycroft pastes on a smile.

“Oh, you know,” he says, with a small laugh. “Mustn’t grumble - as they say.”

Wilkes nods. “And Sherlock?”

Under his one hundred percent wool jacket and waistcoat, Mycroft begins to feel uncomfortably warm. 

“He’s very well, thank you. I’m sure he’ll have news for you very soon.”

Wilkes glances up and down the street, moves fractionally closer and lowers his voice. 

“Has he made contact yet?”

Mycroft racks his brain. He needs an excuse for replying in the negative, an acceptable reason for Sherlock’s failure to bring Irene Adler in. Then it comes to him.

“He’s playing it very carefully. As you yourself said, she’s exceptionally intelligent. Anything too obvious, and Sherlock thinks she’ll become obstinate. His plan is to gain her confidence, to woo her a little - initially through a third party.”

“A third party? Is that wise?”

“Essential, according to my brother. You see, she’s out of the country at present - New Zealand,” Mycroft lies, with practised ease. “Sherlock could hardly turn up in the Antipodes without making her suspicious. His flat-mate, however, has good reason to be in Auckland - medical conference, visiting an old friend. The fellow can be terribly engaging and females tend to like him. He’s the perfect intermediary.”

Wilkes makes an approving sound, low in his throat. 

“I knew there was a reason I hired your brother,” he says, looking pleased with himself. “Although, I must admit, I’m surprised - impressed - that Sherlock would send his friend. I’d have thought he’d find Watson more valuable at home.”

The potential innuendo hangs heavily in the air between them. Mycroft decides to pretend he simply hasn’t noticed it. He gives Wilkes a wide, proud smile. 

“It just goes to show how eager he is to do a good job for you, doesn’t it?”

Wilkes is silent for a moment, as if weighing the credibility of Mycroft’s words, then he laughs, and slaps him on the arm. 

“I suppose it does. Tell him I’m grateful, would you? And now I really must go. Urgent meeting with the board this afternoon, and I have to get measured for shirts.”

Mycroft steps aside, clicking his heels together lightly. “Of course. Good day to you.”

Watching Wilkes enter Gieves and Hawkes’ elegant doors, Mycroft realizes he won’t be able to stall the Authority forever. Soon - very soon - he’ll need solid information on Adler’s whereabouts.

Or her demise.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock stands in front of his mirror, adjusting his tie and scowling. He has zero interest in watching a group of boring little Earthians pretend to be a different group of boring little Earthians but if it’s the price he has to pay to ensure Mycroft remains helpful, then he’ll do it. He doesn’t have to like it.

Mycroft’s car appears at seven o’clock sharp, and takes him to the Adelphi in less than twenty minutes, cutting through the slow-moving traffic on The Strand like a hot blade through butter. Mycroft is waiting in the foyer, immaculate in a tuxedo and black bow tie.

“I got us a box,” he says, glancing around at the other theatre-goers with undisguised disdain. “Management can be terribly generous when one’s in their good books. This way.”

Sherlock follows him up a plushly carpeted flight of stairs, where a young woman in a dark skirt, matching waistcoat and a red cravat, shows them to the Gielgud Box.

“Matthew Michael is terribly good,” Mycroft gushes, thrusting a programme into Sherlock’s hand. “Up for his third Olivier this year. His loss would be a cultural disaster.”

Sherlock is only half-listening. He’s busily scanning the theatre’s horseshoe-shaped red and gold interior as if it were a potential crime scene, looking for exits and entrances, hidden corners and lines of sight. 

A bell rings, and the seats below them start filling up. Another bell and the rest of the audience floods noisily in. Five minutes later, the house lights dim and the play begins.  
 

________________

   
John wasn't expecting to hear from Sherlock during his time away, so it's a surprise when he gets a text from him the very first morning.

“Something urgent?” Sarah asks, spooning plain, low-fat yoghurt over her high-fibre muesli.

“Sherlock,” John tells her. “Apparently he’s at the theatre with Mycroft.” He pauses, confused. “Though why he’s telling me that …”

Sarah’s eyes twinkle. “Oh, come on, John. You know perfectly well.”

John’s heart jumps. “Do I?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she says and grins.  
 

________________

   
John is packing his rucksack for their hike up the Franz Josef glacier when his phone buzzes. Again. With another text from Sherlock.

_John, there was a murder! Live on stage!_

John knows he ought to be saddened, but all he can think is that Sherlock sounds delighted. He smiles fondly and thumbs in a text of his own.

_Glad you’re having fun. J_

He didn't check before leaving but one text shouldn’t be that expensive, surely? He puts his phone back into his pocket, but immediately it buzzes again.

_Thinking of suing. The play was NOT a murder mystery. Knew Lady Margaret was murdered by her son Albert from the start._

_Good for you. Got to go - we’re going hiking today. J_

John wonders whether Sherlock will show any interest in the outing, or if he’ll notice John’s deliberate use of the word ‘we’.

He doesn’t.

_That wasn’t the murder._

_No? J_

_Albert played by William Howells. Sidney by Matthew Michael. Albert hits Sidney with an aluminium crutch at start Act 3. Crutch should have been rubber but killer replaced it with a real aluminium crutch during the interval. Howells hit Michael on head with real crutch and killed him._

_Murder? Sounds like a tragic accident. Need to catch the bus now. J_

_NO. Only person who could switch crutches had to have access to Howells dressing room._

More texts follow - a lot more texts. John sits down on the bed to read them, scarcely managing to finish one before the next arrives. At first, he feels irritated - he told Sherlock he was busy and didn’t have time - but by the time he gets to the big reveal and learns that it was the victim himself who swapped the crutches to get Howells sacked, he can't help smiling at Sherlock’s enthusiasm for his work and is close to convincing himself that Sherlock might actually be missing him.

“John?” From out in the hallway comes the sound of Sarah’s voice. “Are you ready? The bus is here.”

John thumbs in a final text -

_I always said you were amazing. J_

\- and shoves his phone into his jacket pocket, before slinging his rucksack over a shoulder.

Sarah gives him a shrewd look as he emerges from his room. “You look happy,” she says, smiling.

“Just looking forward to getting some exercise,” John replies.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft’s morning has started badly. Every single tabloid has led with the story of Matthew Michael’s death, and the Prime Minister is still dithering about making a statement to the press, despite Mycroft’s advice that such public lamentations should be strictly limited to the passing of royalty.

He stirs his coffee and contemplates demanding cake.

“Mr Holmes!”

A female - dark-haired, petite and with cheekbones almost as sharp as Sherlock’s, sweeps into the room, leaving the latest of Mycroft’s Home Office secretaries flailing in her wake. He recognizes the woman instantly, of course: she’s been in all the papers, even Magnussen's broadsheet. Well, that answers one question: Irene Adler is still very much alive. Tittle-tattle and gossip are apparently useful for _some_ things.

Mycroft rises from his seat and gives his dismayed secretary a reassuring smile. 

“It’s all right, Andrea. I’ll take care of this.” Andrea duly retires, and Mycroft turns to his visitor. “Miss Adler. May I offer you coffee? Tea?”

She looks up at him from under heavily - though perfectly - mascaraed lashes, blue eyes glinting. 

“Oh, I don’t think so, do you? I’m not in the habit of taking tea with men who try to get me killed.”

Mycroft gives her a cold-eyed smile. 

“I’d imagine there have been more than a few of those. I’ve seen your website. The … _services_ you provide must leave some customers terrified of exposure.”

Adler smiles back serenely, and sinks into the chair opposite his desk, arranging herself artfully in order to show off her many assets - upper body angled to highlight the firm, high swell of her breasts; legs crossed to encourage her skirt to ride up her thigh, revealing toned muscle and peachy skin.

“Exposure, Mr Holmes, is something some customers pay extra for. The ones who find the prospect of humiliation thrilling. But I’m not here to talk about them. I want to talk about you, Mr Holmes, and what exactly it is that you want.” 

She tilts her head and appraises him coolly, gaze travelling up from his shoes to his face - and blatantly, insolently, lingering over his groin. Mycroft feels an unwelcome rush of warmth and his shirt collar feels suddenly too tight.

“I assure you, dear lady-”

“Moriarty. You sent him. Him and his henchmen. Don’t try to deny it. I want to know why.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Adler raises an eyebrow. 

“D’you want me to guess? Well, how about this? You’re here on a special mission - you and little Sherlock. Who - as usual - has got out of his depth.”

Mycroft feels queasy. This is all horribly accurate. Does she know about John Watson? What he is to Sherlock? Or - worse still - simply what he _is_? If the latter, Mycroft’s plans are in serious trouble. He adopts a weary expression. 

“My brother has a talent for making enemies.”

“And this time he made an enemy of James Moriarty,” Adler nods. “So you offered him a trade: my life for Sherlock’s. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“In every respect,” Mycroft concedes. At this point there’s nothing to be gained by lying, and it may be to his advantage if he can convince her he sometimes speaks the truth.

Adler smiles again, and her eyes - rather beautiful eyes, Mycroft has to admit - dart about his face, searching. 

“You’re what these days? A Principality, right?” She tuts and shakes her head. “And yet you thought you could sacrifice _me_ \- a _Dominion_ \- to save Sherlock and it would go unpunished. That tells me a lot.”

“Does it?” Mycroft’s stab at nonchalance is instantly undermined when his dry mouth makes his voice catch. He licks his lips. “Do enlighten me.”

“You were going to claim mitigating circumstances of some kind. My scandalous lifestyle, at a guess. But you couldn’t be sure of that working unless … unless someone had told you Management were less than thrilled with my approach to solving the Earth problem.”

Mycroft tries to maintain a neutral expression, but he knows he’s failed when the light in Adler’s eyes turns triumphant.

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” she asks, leaning forward.

“Management want to bring you in, yes,” Mycroft admits. “But for your own good. And in the circumstances -”

Adler blinks, apparently confused for a second, then laughs. 

“Moriarty, you mean? Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not afraid of him. He may be an Angel, but he’s also a man, and I know what men like. No, I’m far more interested in knowing who they’ve sent to bring me back into line.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Mycroft demurs, lowering his gaze.

“Let me put it this way-” Adler’s voice has suddenly lost its sultry, playful edge and is now all dark threat. “ - if you don’t, I’ll find out exactly what Sherlock’s done and tell Management all about it in glorious detail. He’s sure to have done something that will count against both of you … You might even find yourself demoted back to the ranks.”

 _Know when you are beaten_ , the mast-head on Adler’s website says, and Mycroft does. 

“Sebastian Wilkes,” he says through clenched teeth. “Shad Sanderson Bank, Old Broad Street.”

Adler beams. 

“There now,” she purrs, getting to her feet. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Are you going to kill him?” Mycroft asks, before he can stop himself.

“Only with kindness,” Adler replies, with a slow, suggestive smile. “I’m sure I can convince him to see things my way. I can be very persuasive.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“Very,” Adler says again. “Well, I really must be popping off. Thanks for the little chat. And if you’re ever at a loose … _end_ , you know where to find me. It would be my pleasure to fit you in. You and your brother.”

“Thank you. But that won’t be necessary,” Mycroft says stiffly, hurrying to open the door.

Adler laughs. “No. I thought not. But the offer stands. Good-bye, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft pulls the door open wide. 

“Good-bye, Miss Adler.”  
 

________________

   
In daylight, the Clarendon Road swimming pool looks perfectly innocuous. Sherlock stands on the pavement outside, taking in its ugly 1930s architecture, the barred windows and the peeling blue paint on the railings that surround it. It could pass for a frontier outpost, were it not for the noisy streams of school children entering and leaving through the heavy front doors, their navy and white school uniforms brightened by brilliantly coloured sports bags slung over their shoulders, or dangling from little hands. The air is bright with the sound of their high-pitched chatter, and softened by the reassuring rumble of passing traffic. It’s all so prosaic, so every day, no-one would guess John came close to dying here. Sherlock pushes in through the gates.

The smell of chlorine is nothing new. He’s used the chemical in numerous experiments - largely those involving Zemeans whose epidermic tissue is prone to putrefaction during prolonged periods of incarceration - and though he’s always found it pungent, it’s never activated his limbic system before. He’s surprised to find his heart and breathing accelerate the moment he enters the building and the smell hits him, and perturbed by the unaccustomed tightening of his abdominal wall.

(Sentiment.)

Sherlock flashes one of the I.D. cards he’s confiscated from Lestrade at the lithe, bald Earthian on reception, and asks to see the pool’s CCTV footage for April 1st.

“Sorry, mate,” the Earthian says. “We haven’t got any.”

“You may not have the footage here,” Sherlock agrees, speaking slowly because the creature is obviously an idiot, “but it must be on a server somewhere. Where are your digital records kept? The main council building? With a security firm?”

“That’s what I’m saying. They haven’t got them either.”

Sherlock is thrown. The only way that could be true is if the equipment was broken in some way and he’s sure he would have noticed damage to any of the cameras. 

“That can’t be-”

“Power outage, according to Parks and Recreation. Like I told that other policeman.”

Sherlock assumes he must mean Lestrade - acting, no doubt, on Mycroft’s instructions. But a power outage would have affected all the building’s electricity, and the lights were most assuredly on during Sherlock’s encounter with Moriarty. A quick run-through of the possible explanations, and the elimination of the impossible, leaves Sherlock with two possibilities: either only the power supply to the CCTV cameras was cut, or someone is lying.

“Sorry I can’t be more help,” the Earthian says, with a shrug.

Sherlock smiles. “Not at all. In fact, you’ve been very helpful indeed.”

Out on the street again, Sherlock looks around for a taxi, but every one that passes is already occupied. He’s cursing the damn Congestion Charge, and the resulting competition for cabs, when his phone buzzes.

It’s a text. From John.

_Sarah’s sister rushed into hospital. Coming home early. See you tomorrow evening. J_

A picture of the flat flashes into Sherlock’s mind. He’s been so preoccupied with John’s safety during his absence that he’s completely neglected everything else. Like buying milk and beans. Or putting things away. Or keeping on top of the laundry. A second picture, equally unappealing, succeeds the first - John’s face when he steps into 221B again, and sees the mess it’s in. He’ll either think Sherlock doesn’t want him there at all, or that he wants him there so badly, he falls apart whenever he’s away. Neither would be in the least bit good. Sherlock needs to get home immediately and instil some order.

He steps off the pavement, into the path of an oncoming bus and, when it fails to slow quickly enough, he draws John’s gun.  
 

________________

   
John was feeling pretty laid-back about going home when he boarded the plane in Auckland: with a twenty-five hour trip ahead of him, London still felt a long, long way away. When they changed planes in Sydney, he was too tired to think about much at all, but after their stopover in Singapore, the thought of being back in Baker Street suddenly became very real. In just fifteen hours, he'd be climbing the staircase up to the flat again. The prospect made his stomach rise then plummet, as if the plane were suddenly in free fall, and it seemed like the only answer was a double whisky, followed by another.

Which is why John’s first moments back inside 221B are proving a bit of an anticlimax. He spent the taxi ride back from Heathrow rehearsing friendly but safe things to say - things like _Hey. Good to be back. Anything in to eat? I’m starving_ \- but Sherlock’s not even here. John’s spirits slump, then his nerves begin jangling all over again.

Rather than sit around, fretting, he decides to get a few jobs done. He unpacks, and puts his washing on. Takes a shower, and tidies the sitting room. Nips down to the corner shop, and buys a few groceries. Comes back. Puts the kettle on. He’s trying to get comfortable in his chair by the fire, when he Sherlock comes thundering up the stairs.

He throws the living room door open, muttering darkly. He looks terrible - unshaven and exhausted, as if he's been sleeping rough. When he catches sight of John, he freezes.

“You’re back,” he says, as if it’s the last thing he expected.

“Uh … yeah. I am. Didn’t you get my text?”

“Your text? Yes. Of course.” 

Sherlock starts pacing, distractedly gathering up the papers John carefully avoided disturbing, along with sheet music from his stand, and his precious London Gazetteer. He stuffs the lot into a drawer and slams it shut.

John stands. 

“Um … Sherlock? Are you all right? You look awful. Perhaps you should sit down.” He motions towards Sherlock’s chair with a hand.

“Sit down? Why would I need to sit down? What I need is a shower. Have you any idea how filthy police cells are?”

John feels his jaw drop. 

“Police cells? You were in a police cell?”

“Obviously. D’you think I’d be in this state otherwise?”

“Oh my God,” John breathes, shaking his head. “You got arrested. Well, it was bound to happen eventually. What did you do?”

“Nothing! There weren’t any taxis, so I took a bus.”

“What?” John’s sure he must have missed something, or misheard. “It’s not illegal to- ” Then the penny drops. “Ah. So when you say you took a bus, you mean-”

“I didn’t steal it,” Sherlock protests. “I borrowed it. But apparently ‘waving a firearm around on the Queen’s highway’ in unacceptable. A lot of fuss about nothing.” He flashes John a brilliant smile. “Don’t worry. Mycroft sorted it out. I got you your gun back.” 

He takes the weapon from his pocket, hands it over and goes back to his anxious pacing.

God, he’s insane, John thinks. And brilliant. Not to mention utterly hilarious. John snorts out a laugh. 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock stops pacing and turns around. A touch of colour has come to his cheeks, making him look flustered and - John doesn’t think he’s imagining it - pleased.

“Have you?”

“Yes. I bloody well have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many beta thanks to scribblemoose


	10. Stumbling Round The Fringes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three new cases ought to be enough to keep Sherlock occupied, but John gets a new girlfriend. Which is bad news for brain work.
> 
> WARNING: Gore. (Tilly Briggs section.)

“Mind if I shift this stuff over to the table?”

Sherlock looks up from the bone fragment he’s grinding to dust with his pestle and mortar to find John standing in the kitchen doorway with a bundle of shirts over his arm, and frowning at the array of test tubes occupying the ironing board.

“If you’re not at a critical stage with your experiment?” John adds, with a smile.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. (He’s impossible!) (Sweet, reasonable, charming - _impossible!_ )

“Since when has scientific discovery ever been as critical as a crisply ironed shirt?”

It’s supposed to be a jibe, something to keep the atmosphere between them less than comfortable, but John just eyes Sherlock’s own (perfectly pressed) shirt and grins.

“Knew you’d understand.”

Sherlock’s so close to grinning back, thereby undoing everything he’s achieved in the past few days, that he has to escape to his bedroom. He stays there until he hears John leave for work. (Thank God Sarah Sawyer's sister is ill. Thank God Sarah is taking time off to be with her.)

Sherlock paces restlessly about the flat. He can’t understand what’s taking Mycroft so long. (He’s _Mycroft_. He must have found _someone_ who knows something about John’s real father by now!) Because living in the same flat as John whilst trying to keep his distance from him is driving Sherlock slowly mad. It hasn’t helped that John’s returned from New Zealand in such a friendly (no, _affectionate_ ) mood. He gets too close, smiles too broadly, and licks his lips far too much. As a result, Sherlock’s constantly on edge. He’s taken to smoking as soon as John leaves for work, then belligerently denying it when John sniffs the air and makes accusations. Sherlock’s only defence is scorn and he deploys it freely, only to flinch at the pain and confusion he sees in John’s eyes when he goes too far.

(God, even thinking about it hurts! How do Earthians manage to live like this? Awash with Sentiment, slaves to Attachment?) Sherlock can feel his brain rotting in his head, his blood pressure soaring and his lungs fighting for air.

He almost weeps with relief when his phone buzzes and he sees the call is from Lestrade.

“Yes!” he says, before Lestrade’s even got a word out. “I’ll come. Where?”

There’s a pause, then: “Hang on. I haven’t even said anything yet. How d’you know-”

“It’s obvious. You need me. The only question is: what for? And you’re in luck, Lestrade. Today, I don’t even care whether it’s a funny one.”

“Oh, this one’s funny, all right,” Lestrade says. “Did you see the news about that pleasure cruiser disappearing last week? The Tilly Briggs? Well, it’s turned up. Near Greenwich.”

“I’ll be there-”

“Wait. There’s more. A day later, the RNLI pulled a bloke out of the river near Lambeth Bridge. He said he’d been on the Tilly Briggs but jumped ship because there was a giant rat on board. Everyone thought he was mad but-”

“But?” Sherlock prompts, as a prickle of excitement lifts the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Come and see for yourself,” Lestrade says. “And bring John. This could use a doctor’s eye.”

“He’s at work.”

Sherlock ends the call, and grabs his coat. Half-way out of the door, he gives in to the temptation to tell John where he’s going. According to the schedule John has pinned to the fridge, his morning shift at the surgery will be over within the hour, and Sherlock would hate to miss an opportunity to dazzle him.  
 

________________

   
Less than an hour after receiving Sherlock’s text, John is in Greenwich. The truth is, he’s missed this: the excitement of a new case, Sherlock being brilliant and showing off for him. Filling in for Sarah at the surgery is great for the bank account, and taking care of people has always made him feel useful, but it’s tearing around London with Sherlock that brings John to life.

He hurries through the Old Royal Naval College grounds and down through the riverfront gates onto the foreshore. Across the water, Canary Wharf skyscrapers glitter in the mid-day light, and further down the river, what John stills thinks of as the Millennium Dome squats like a giant white pin cushion against an unusually blue sky. Neither arrests John’s attention for long. Not when he’s looking for a crime scene.

And there it is. A large, two-level launch, lying at a steep angle on the shingle, surrounded by policemen and blue and white tape.

To John’s eye, with its square windows and regular lines, the Tilly Briggs is a bit of an ungainly tub compared with the modern pleasure cruisers, but the boat is sturdy and well cared for. The paintwork is fresh and the fenders are new.

Lestrade is standing near the stern, deep in conversation with Donovan. When he spots John approaching, he beckons him over.

“Sherlock’s still onboard. Show him the way up, Donovan.”

Donovan scowls.

“Please?” John says, with his best winning smile.

It doesn’t earn him anything more than a grunt in reply but Donovan turns and leads the way to where the Tilly Briggs’ port side is a mere four feet from the ground. As John contemplates how to get on board, Donovan steps back and folds her arms in a clear signal that she’s not going to help.

John grips the side-rail with both hands and hauls himself up. He’s not surprised that Lestrade hasn’t followed - Greg finds untimely deaths as hard to look at as he does - but the fact that Donovan doesn’t feel moved to supervise the scene in his stead speaks volumes. She’s not squeamish like Lestrade.

Even so, John’s unprepared for the sight that meets him. There are bodies everywhere. A couple of dozen young people, men and women, their clothing torn and covered with blood. There’s blood on the floor too, blood that’s turned dark and sticky, and it pulls at the soles of John’s shoes as he picks his way unsteadily across the sloping floor to the bar at the far end of the deck where Sherlock’s crouched down over a body.

“Well, here I am,” John says. “How can I help?”

Sherlock looks up, smiling, and he looks so bloody gorgeous that John forgets to watch his step and promptly stumbles. In a heartbeat, Sherlock’s beside him, steadying him with one hand to his elbow, and the other on his lower back. His palms are warm, his grip firm, and it seems to John that he holds on longer than is strictly necessary. Probably because he thinks John’s an idiot, unable to stand upright without help.

“Take a look at the injuries,” Sherlock says, indicating the body at his feet. “Tell me what you see.”

John stoops down. The body is that of a young woman, sandy-haired and slightly overweight. Unlike the other bodies, which have sustained damage all over, her injuries are limited to her lower legs. She’s lost her shoes - along with most of her toes, and there are lacerations to her feet, ankles, shins and calves. John takes a closer look at the cuts. There are hundreds of them. Tear upon tear. Some of the more isolated ones form triangles - three small puncture wounds - surrounded by bruises, a couple of centimetres across. John’s stomach decides to lurch when he realizes he’s seen this type of damage before.

“Well?” Sherlock prompts, and John knows he must have been watching him closely to have noticed his involuntary grimace. “What do you think?”

“These cuts,” John answers. “They look like bites. Rat bites. See here?” He points to one of the sets of three incisions. “Definitely rodent dentition. And London is overrun with rats. The homeless, rough sleepers are particularly susceptible, especially if they’ve drunk themselves senseless, and this was a party ...”

Palms pressed together, Sherlock nods encouragingly. “But ..?”

John knows what he’s getting at. Even in Afghanistan, he never came across rat bites of this size. The creature - creatures - that made them must have had jaws three times larger than a standard brown rat.

“They’re too big,” he says.

“Too big to have been made by Rattus norvegicus definitely. But you read the papers. Why did Alan Cranford claim he’d jumped into the Thames?”

“Alan Cranford?” For a moment, John doesn’t recognize the name. “Oh! You mean that bloke they admitted to the Maudsley. A giant rat? I suppose it’s possible. A mutation of some-”

“Wrong! You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“Being made to look an idiot, more like,” John mutters, but Sherlock ignores him and goes on.

“Rats don’t attack healthy young humans, John. And everyone here was fit and healthy. All except for this one.” He points down at the body at their feet. “Diabetic.”

“How-?”

“Come and look at the others.”

Sherlock leads John to the body of a long-limbed black man with the musculature of a sprinter, slumped face down over a seat-back. His shirt had been torn up the middle and his lower back ravaged.

"No defensive wounds," Sherlock says. "Nothing to suggest he fought back. Nothing to suggest _any_ of them fought back. Which is surprising, given the nature of the injuries."

“You think they were drugged?”

Sherlock nods. “I’m sure of it. Take a look at his face.”

John leans down to do just that - and finds the man's eyes missing. He quickly stands up again.

“Yeah, thanks. Thanks for that. I’m not going to eat for a week now. Can we leave?”

“Just one more,” Sherlock bargains. “This one is more your area.”

It’s another man. He’s shirtless and lying flat on his back on the floor, giving John an unimpeded view of the damage to his chest. Right up the middle of it, there’s a ragged stripe of tears, about twenty centimetres long - the length of his sternum. There’s other damage too - to his face, and hands and feet, but the worst of it is his chest.

John’s mouth goes dry. “That looks like -”

“It is,” Sherlock confirms. “He was patched up again afterwards, and the wound ripped to make it look like bites, but I bet if we were to reopen him, we’d find the heart missing.” He points at the black bloke. “He’s missing his kidneys, as well as his eyes. Overall, I calculate these people are missing five livers, two pancreases, a dozen kidneys, ten eyes, six hearts and four spleens. Their organs have been harvested, John.”

John shakes his head, appalled at the very idea. “In central London? On the bloody Thames? It can’t be-”

“There’s a roaring trade in human organs all over the world, John. Why should London be an exception?”

“Organ donation in this country-”

“Don’t be naïve! You’ve only ever worked in NHS institutions. There are other places. Places where donor care doesn’t have much of a priority. What you see here is simply an extension of that. There’s a fortune to be made in organ trafficking.”

“But who-?”

“Good question. As yet, I’ve no idea. But I’m going to find out.”  
 

________________

   
Mycroft hasn’t seen Sherlock in over a week - though with John Watson back in the country and no longer romantically involved with his employer, he hadn’t really expected to. He just hopes Sherlock’s doing as he was told. The fact that he’s taking on cases again gives grounds for hope on that score, and Mycroft reads Watson’s latest blog entry - ‘Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror’ - with interest.

_Sherlock quickly deduced that the injuries suffered by the victims were not, in fact, the result of rat bites but the work of unscrupulous humans trafficking in organs for transplantation. He’s determined to find the perpetrators and bring them to justice - and I’m determined to help. The people responsible for that ghastly carnage were doctors, and I take their actions as a personal insult. I don’t care how ill the intended recipients were in, the Hippocratic Oath is very clear: First, do no harm. I just hope I can live by that when we find them._

Mycroft leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. John Watson may not be entirely human, but his Earthian side is strong. He has their typical thirst for vengeance masquerading as a desire for justice; he’s self-righteous in his anger, passionate. Mycroft congratulates himself on having allowed the Nephilim to remain in Sherlock’s life, and jots down a few notes - stressing his own involvement in finding Watson in the first place - to add to his daily report to Management but is careful to give no hint as to what John is. _That_ is far too useful a card to play at this stage of the game.  
 

________________

   
Supermarkets are _not_ Sherlock’s area. He’s told John as much, more than once, and yet here he is anyway, trailing around the Tesco’s on Baker Street, with the handles of a wire shopping basket cutting into his palm, and being buffeted by idiots. If he weren’t anxious about John’s safety, he wouldn’t be here at all. The Tilly Briggs case has left him unsettled. The evidence was easy to read, and the Met surprisingly efficient. (For once.) The suspects were behind bars within forty-eight hours and had signed confessions within sixty, yet something about the case feels off ( _unsolved_ ) and it itches under Sherlock’s skin like an insect bite.

“The tea-bags are this way,” John says, as if Sherlock could give a damn, and he marches away down the aisle like a soldier on a mission.

Sherlock drags his feet, to make his feelings on the whereabouts of tea-bags perfectly clear. And then he takes the opposite direction, to underline the point.

He expects John to notice he’s missing immediately and come looking for him, but he doesn’t. By the time Sherlock finds him again (four minutes and twenty-four seconds later), John is talking to someone unfamiliar - someone _female_ \- and he’s got That Look on his face.

Sherlock tosses his hair (John likes it voluminous) and stalks over.

“ _Really_ ,” the female is saying, and her eyes shine with adoration as she looks up at John. (Oh, that’s _clever_. Be shorter than him. Be fine-boned and slight. Appeal to his protective side.)

(She’s far too young for him.) (Any idiot can see that.) (Spots! She has _spots_! She can scarcely be out of her teens.)

But John is smiling back, soft-eyed and soft-lipped.

“All right, then,” he says, nodding. “Friday. Half-past eight. I’ll, uh, look forward to it.”

Since John hasn’t seen fit to introduce him, Sherlock supposes he’ll have to do it himself. He takes a step forward.

“Hello. I’m Sherlock.”

The female looks up and her mouth opens in surprise. “Oh! Yes! I recognize you. From John’s blog.” Her gaze darts back to John. “It’s brilliant, isn’t it? I’m a huge fan.”

“Oh, God,” Sherlock groans.

But his groan falls on deaf ears. The female is too busy gushing about John’s prowess as a writer, and John too busy trying to seem modest whilst grinning from ear to ear. (And puffing his chest out.) (And standing taller.) (His courtship display is as pathetic as it is obvious.) The only blessing is it only goes on for a minute before the female notices the time and says a hasty good-bye.

“Friday?” Sherlock asks, as soon as she’s gone.

John’s mouth twists with the effort of not to look smug. “Yes. We’re, uh, meeting up. To talk. About blogging.”

“Dull.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to come,” John says, and tosses a box of eighty organic tea-bags into the basket on Sherlock’s arm. “You can stay home and brood.”

 

When Friday evening comes, Sherlock’s tempted to believe Nephilim have the gift of prophecy because he _is_ brooding. Brooding on whether John finds the female attractive and to what extent. On whether John will bother coming home tonight. He knows he’s being foolish. He’s an _Angel_. A spotty little Earthian female is no competition. In fact, she’s the best thing that could have happened, in the circumstances. A publicly visible girlfriend might convince Moriarty that whatever he thinks he might have glimpsed between Sherlock and John was simply a figment of his deranged mind.

Yes, the Earthian is exactly what they need right now. She’s harmless, and dating her will make John’s whereabouts predictable.

It doesn’t matter that the thought of John kissing her burns.  
 

________________

   
John has decided to retreat to his own room to update his blog. Constantly being told he’s an idiot does sod all for his narrative flow. He just hopes Sherlock gets an interesting new case soon, or he’s going to end up punching him. He settles into his chair and opens his laptop, and before long, he’s typing away, relishing the relative peace of this a room without Sherlock in it.

The first indication John gets that he’s no longer alone is a faint sensation of warmth at his back. A second later, a large, beautifully shaped hand is planted down on the table to the left of his keyboard and Sherlock leans over him.

John huffs in annoyance and twists around in his seat, a lecture about invading other people’s privacy on the tip of his, but when he sees how dark Sherlock’s eyes are, and how intense his stare, everything he meant to say disappears. For a crazed, breathless second, he even thinks Sherlock might be about to kiss him.

He doesn’t. He just shakes his head at John’s latest blog entry and lets out a snort of disdain.

“ ‘Sherlock said he needed more data, but I still think the laptop melted because of the sheer amount of data the insurance clerk had tampered with’. Really, John? You’re an idiot. I suggest you go back to looking at pictures of naked women. Far more your area.”

John wants to protest the insult to his intelligence, but finds himself flushing with embarrassment instead. Because the truth is, over the past few days, he _has_ been looking at soft porn sites - though only in a desperate bid to convince himself that his wanting Sherlock is just a temporary aberration. He likes women, damn it - _women_ , with their soft edges and their soft skin, not stupid lanky blokes who swagger about, belittling people. John used to be so sure about that. He’s not any more. Nothing he’s done with his much younger and insanely adventurous girlfriend has been half as arousing kissing Sherlock. And he should have forgotten about that by now. It was one kiss, for God’s sake - one kiss and a rushed, if amazing, hand job - but the memory still lingers, sharply beautiful, painfully sweet.

“I’m a doctor,” he splutters. “I have to, uh, keep abreast … I mean _up_ … Oh, just sod off and leave me alone.”  
 

________________

   


John’s not sure how long his nerves can bear it. Over the past few days, they’ve seen a lot of would-be clients, all of whom have had short shrift from Sherlock. His sympathetic response to their tales of woe has either been ‘Boring!’ or ‘Leave!’ But only if the client was lucky. One poor woman was told, yes, her husband was indeed having an affair, whilst a grieving nephew was sneered at for questioning whether the ashes he’d been given really where those of his aunt. It made John wince every time.

“We’re going to have to work on your customer relations skills,” he mutters on the third day, after Sherlock has closed the door behind two very sweet little girls who now know far more about the finality of death and what happens afterwards than can possibly be good for them.

Sherlock glares. “What for?”

“Because you’ve been a complete dick to everyone who’s come here for days.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, John realizes it’s not Sherlock’s being rude that bothers him but the fact that he’s rude to _everyone_. He was fine when he thought Sherlock’s irritation was personal, and that it stemmed from his relationship with Jenny. Because the thought that Sherlock might be jealous made John ridiculously happy. But Sherlock isn’t, and it’s trying John’s patience.

“I can’t help it if people are idiots, John,” Sherlock is saying, pacing the room. “None of you notice what’s right under your nose, unless it’s pointed out in words of one syllable.”

“Yeah, well maybe that’s because we’re just ordinary human beings,” John snaps. “Not high-functioning robots.”

Abruptly, Sherlock stops pacing. He shoots John an unreadable look and his mouth opens, something heavy seeming to hang in the air between them. A moment later, it’s gone. Sherlock snaps his mouth shut and strides over to the doorway to shout down to Mrs Hudson to send up the next one.

The next one is a businessman in an expensive suit with a silk handkerchief spilling from his breast pocket. He offers to pay ‘any sum of money’ for the safe return of some files. Sherlock tells him he’s boring and orders him to leave.

John is getting close to despair when three young men troop into the living room - geeky types with tatty jeans and fanboy tops. Sherlock’s eyes widen comically as they gather before him, as if he’s never seen anything quite so clichéd in his life. Their leader introduces himself as Chris Melas whilst his friends stand around awkwardly, twisting their hands. They look young and foolish, and John braces himself for the inevitability of Sherlock dismissing them with scorn.

“We have a website,” Melas says. “It explains the true meaning of comic books - ‘cause people miss a lot of the themes.”

Sherlock gives a huff of contempt and walks away.

John sees Melas’ fingers flutter in agitation.

“But then all the comic books started coming true.”

Here it comes, John thinks. The moment when Sherlock laughs in his face. But instead, Sherlock stops dead in his tracks. He turns and walks back, his eyes alight.

“Hmm,” he purrs, looking down at the kid. “Interesting. Exactly what kind of comic books?”

Suddenly subjected to Sherlock’s laser focus, Melas squirms - although not, John notes, out of fear or embarrassment but _pleasure_. His large eyes sparkle and his cheeks flush pink, and as he starts telling his story, he seems to blossom and grow bolder under Sherlock’s rapt attention.

John stiffens in his seat and sits taller. Sherlock should be ridiculing this boy, as he's ridiculed all their other would-be clients. He can't seriously believe this nonsense about comics-

“ _John_. I asked you what you thought.”

“Huh? What?” John shakes himself. Does his best to concentrate.

Sherlock’s head is tipped to one side, the light in his eyes amused, bordering on evil, and for a moment, John thinks he _knows_. Knows that John was feeling excluded. Jealous.

“I said we’d check out what’s going on immediately,” Sherlock explains, eyes still twinkling. “What do you think?”

“Yes,” John says quickly. “Absolutely. Yes.”

Sherlock grins. “Knew I could rely on you. We’ll get kitted out with the necessary spandex tomorrow.”

Spandex? Sherlock expects John to wear spandex? Stretchy, figure-hugging, reveal-everything _spandex_? Around Sherlock wearing the self same thing?

Oh, God.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock’s plan has taken a few days to put in place but it’s unfolding perfectly. As instructed, Melas has tweeted that the latest KATRIDES comic predicts a superhero battle in Soho, and his followers have turned out en masse, phones primed to record the action. The only slight hiccough is John’s reluctance to get out of the cab.

“I look like … Christ, Sherlock, I’m too old for a get-up like this.”

“You look perfectly fine,” Sherlock insists. “A bit soft around the middle, perhaps, but your quadriceps femoris and gluteal muscles are in extremely good shape.” He pauses, confused, as John’s face flushes scarlet. (All the men’s magazines suggest that muscle definition like John’s is something most Earthian males would die for.) “What? Not good?”

John mutters something under his breath that sounds like ‘too good’ but he refuses to repeat it, opting instead for, “Come on. Let’s get this humiliation over with.”

Sherlock spots Melas in position outside the Gielgud Theatres and a hilarious chase down Shaftesbury Avenue ensues. Passers-by gape and Melas’ Twitter friends cheer. By the time they reach Forbidden Planet, press photographers have started arriving and Sherlock’s work is done. He seizes John by the wrist and drags him off at a run down a narrow alleyway to where a taxi stands waiting to take them home.

Sherlock watches John out of the corner of his eye as he settles beside him, following the angle of the seatbelt he draws across his body; drinking in John’s wiry frame and the perfect proportions of him.

“All right?” he asks, once John has the belt clicked into place.

John turns, eyes dark, face serious.

“I’m a doctor. I used to be a soldier. And I’m wearing this.” He sweeps a hand down his front. “A leotard, Sherlock - a bloody _leotard_!”

“Yes, but-”

“And it’s absolutely worth it,” John says, exploding into laughter, “because I don’t look anywhere near as stupid as you.”  
 

________________

   


Mycroft’s Monday 10 o’clock slot has taken him to the US Embassy in Mayfair, and Mayfair is a mere stone’s throw from the City of Westminster. He decides to make his way to Sherlock’s flat on foot. It would be better to burn off some of the anger Sherlock’s latest escapade has engendered before confronting him. There’s a newsagents at Baker Street station. Mycroft enters it to pick up the evidence he needs: copies of _The Sun_ , _The Mirror_ and _The Daily Mail_. The attractive young Asian man on the till has the grace merely to raise an eyebrow rather than pass comment on this unlikely choice of reading material. Mycroft bids him good-day, wishing his own brother had the Earthian’s discretion, and walks briskly on to 221B’s front door.

Hudson lets him in. Immediately, her eyes fall on the newspapers.

“Isn’t it marvellous?” she exclaims. “Our Sherlock, a superhero!”

Before Mycroft can answer that no, it most certainly is _not_ marvellous, the Fallen bursts into a fit of giggles and hurries back into her own flat, waving a wild hand which he supposes is meant to indicate he should make his own way upstairs.

Mycroft finds Sherlock in the kitchen, a bunsen burner in one hand and a boiling flask in the other. He spares Mycroft the briefest of sour glances, but doesn’t bother to speak.

“We need to talk,” Mycroft says grimly.

“Boring!”

Sherlock turns up the flame and the pale lilac solution in the flask starts to bubble.

“Perhaps you’d pay find me more interesting if I’d come dressed as Spider Man?”

That gets Sherlock’s attention. He gives Mycroft an appraising look.

“The Hulk would suit you better,” he says, with a pointed look at Mycroft’s midsection. “You’ve put on five pounds since I last saw you. Been at the cakes again?”

“I’m not here to talk about cakes! I’m here to talk about _these_.”

Mycroft slaps the newspapers down on the kitchen table and opens them to the appropriate pages.

 _Curiosity killed the Kat-rides!_ , the Mirror cries, above a photo of Christopher Melas in his Latimer Mouse outfit, the big-eared head section under one arm. _Mouse traps Kat!_ , the Sun agrees, under another. The Mail opts for _Kat-rides on the fiddle_. In all three, two figures clad in tight, black Lycra - one tall and thin, the other small and compact - can clearly be seen fleeing the scene.

“If Management get wind of this, they won’t be amused,” Mycroft says. “You’re here to work, not run around playing silly games.”

“You think opening Earthians' eyes to deception is a silly game? If that’s Management’s position, no wonder they’re all so stupid.”

Deception? Mycroft frowns.

“What are you talking about?”

“This.” Sherlock waves his now steaming and foul-smelling flask at the papers. “Melas was duped into thinking the Katrides comic book series was able to predict the future. He was so convinced of it that it almost cost him his sanity - or, at least, what passes for sanity on this planet. I merely taught him - and his legions of half-witted Twitter followers - to rule out the impossible in order to arrive at the truth.”

“By dressing up as a _ninja_?”

“It was quicker than taking the publishers to court - and, in this country, trial by media is a time-honoured tradition.”

Mycroft grits his teeth. His experience of government has taught him to be wary of both the media and the truth.

“That doesn’t alter the fact that Management won’t approve of your antics - and neither do I.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“So? Do I look like I care?”

Mycroft leans in.

“You will care, Sherlock. You’ll care very much indeed if they order you home. Who’ll look after John then?”

Sherlock visibly pales.

“I’m doing the work they sent me here to do,” he says, a muscle in his cheek working. “This planet will never make progress until Earthians learn to _reason_ and stop believing in the existence of superhumans and fairies, and ghosts, and all the other stupid things they fill their brains with.”

Mycroft sniffs. “Their belief that Angels have feathered wings and haloes has served us well. There are some things it’s better _not_ to open their eyes to.”

“Spoken like a true non-scientist,” Sherlock sneers.

“Spoken like a fool,” Mycroft tosses back. “Earthians aren’t evolved enough for autonomy. They need us. They need our guiding hand.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Sherlock says. “ ‘You’re not old enough to play with chemicals, Sherlock.’ ‘You’re not responsible enough to have a dog of your own’.”

There’s an Earthian saying about about the relative sharpness of serpent’s teeth and ungrateful children, Mycroft recalls, and it’s right: they hurt.

“Sherlock,” he growls, but Sherlock ignores him.

“I’m helping them _think_!” he cries, clenching his fists. “And if Management can’t see that-”

“What Management will see,” Mycroft says coldly, jabbing a finger at the _Mail_ ’s photograph, in which Sherlock’s backside is reproduced with shocking clarity, “is a headstrong Angel in tight clothing with no understanding of restraint or decorum.”

“I was in disguise! There’s no mention of my name, no shot of my face.”

“Not this time, no, but you need to learn some discretion. It’s time to act like a grown-up.”

“Sounds dull.”

“Not as dull as a return home and a life-time in Records, brother mine.”

Sherlock’s grip on the tongs holding his boiling flask falters and, for a moment, it wobbles dangerously. Mycroft can see the prospect of a monochrome future in Records filling his mind and overwhelming him.

“All right,” Sherlock says at last. “I’ll do it your way. No more ‘silly games’. No more dressing up and bringing Heaven into ‘disrepute’.”

“No more appearing in the papers at all,” Mycroft insists. “And if you won’t do it for me, do it for John. If he really is a Nephilim, I’d think the last thing you’d want would be to broadcast his whereabouts.”  
 

________________

   
By the time John comes home from work, Sherlock has ceased rebelling against Mycroft’s advice. He already knew he’d been letting his good intentions slide. Missing John’s company and dark bouts of jealousy are no excuse for revealing how Attached he is. He needs to get a grip. He’s still angry and frustrated, but those are emotions he can put to work. If his Attachment starts to show, he’ll use them to fuel arguments and criticisms, and as John walks into the living room, he casts him a baleful glare from the safety of his chair.

John ignores it.

“Have you moved at all today?” he asks, pausing to scan the room for evidence of activity as he takes off his coat. There’s no malice in his voice, only teasing warmth and fond amusement, although he’s doing his best to make it sound like a serious reproach.

Sherlock grunts and gives an angry None-Of-Your-Business shrug, but John merely rolls his eyes and shakes his head indulgently.

“All right for some,” he says mildly and tosses his coat onto the back of his chair. “Want a cup of tea?”

He’s so calm, so steady, and so undemandingly good, that Sherlock wants to grab him by his shirt collar and haul him off to Heaven right now, so that he can point out all the many ways in which the myths about Nephilim are wrong. (Wrong, wrong, wrong!) Instead, he presses his lips together and shakes his head.

“Going to be one of those evenings, is it?” John asks from the kitchen. A cupboard opens and closes. A tap runs and a switch is clicked on. “Perhaps you should take one of the Boring cases. Like that flash businessman from last week. He said he’d pay any amount for those files and we need the money. I don’t get enough hours at the surgery to keep us in tea and beans indefinitely, let alone pay the rent.”

Sherlock grunts again, biting his lip against the urge to blurt out that, actually, they don’t pay rent at all because Hudson’s Mycroft’s spy, and this whole set-up is a lie. Because he can’t. He’s as trapped as any stupid Earthian, and it’s entirely his own fault. He writhes in his seat and bangs his forehead off his knees.

“Right, then,” John murmurs, and Sherlock can feel the concerned look he’s giving him as he comes back into the living room with his mug of tea. “I suppose, if we’ve got nothing on, it’ll give me a chance to catch up with my blog.”

“Your blog! Waste of time. Who do you think is interested in the life of a middle-aged GP?”

John’s jaw tightens but he settles into his armchair and takes his laptop down from the bookshelf at his side.

“I’m thirty-nine,” he says. “For your information, I won’t be classed as middle-aged for another six years. I should have thought a genius would know that. Or is this the solar system thing all over again?”

“Who do you think is interested in the life of _a thirty-nine year old GP_ , then?”

“Somebody must be,” John replies, refusing to wilt under Sherlock’s hostile stare. “I got threatened with legal action if I didn’t take the Tilly Briggs entry down. But I’m not writing for _them_. I’m writing for _me_. I want to remember this. Our time together. The extraordinary things you do. How much you see.”

Sherlock’s resolve wavers. It’s John who’s extraordinary, not him. He’s amazing, unique and Sherlock wants to wrap his arms around him, and fend off the rest of the world (and the whole damn universe). He opens his mouth, something indiscreet and damning on his lips, but is saved by the sudden buzzing of his phone.

It’s Lestrade, sounding sickeningly cheerful. “Fancy a trip to Surrey?”

“Why would I want to go to Surrey?”

“Because I’ve got a body for you.”  
 

________________

   
The mortuary is quite an appropriate setting, John feels, given the current state of relations with Sherlock. Chilly, with the hollow acoustic of a room with no soft furnishings and far too little warm, living flesh.

In the centre of the sluiceable floor, under bright overhead lights, Julia Stoner lies naked on a stainless steel autopsy table. Sherlock is bent over her, peering through his hand lens at the strange purple marks on her otherwise perfect young form. Those marks, John thinks bitterly, are probably _all_ Sherlock sees. Sherlock’s not interested in bodies - however lovely - nor the person beneath. To him, a case is all about facts, not people.

“John.” Sherlock breaks into John’s thoughts to summon him over.

In his entire medical career, John has never seen anything like the speckled marks on Julia Stoner’s body. The obvious possible causes - bruises or bites - he quickly rules out. The discoloration is too even, too lacking in lesions. He digs deeper, and remembers chapters in med school text books about abnormal melatonin distribution. However, the rapid onset of the marks reported by Stoner’s relatives render that hypothesis null and void. Which leaves sepsis - even if the size and pattern of the speckles are unusual enough to make even that diagnosis uncertain.

“Do people actually read your blog?” Sherlock asks, suddenly, out of the blue.

John blinks, appalled. Sherlock is still obsessing about his website at a time like this?

“Where do you think our clients come from?” he replies coldly, because this is another of those times he’s embarrassed to be Sherlock’s friend. What the _hell_ is wrong with him?

“ _I_ have a website,” Sherlock replies with a sniff, and John can’t help himself.

“In which you enumerate two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash,” he says. “Nobody’s reading _your_ website.”

Sherlock bristles, straightens up, and though John can feel those eyes on him - shooting daggers - he feigns obliviousness and tries not to grin. Riling Sherlock has become a perverse source of pleasure. Proof that Sherlock sees him. That John retains a smidgen of power in this lopsided relationship.

“Right, then,” John says, after a pause, because one of them needs to be professional, at least. “Dyed blond hair. No obvious cause of death - except for these speckles. Whatever they are.”

He looks up, a cue for Sherlock to take over. It’s a peace offering of sorts, but apparently it’s come too late because Sherlock’s no longer on the other side of the table but sweeping out through the mortuary door.

“Sher-” John begins, but his appeal dies on his lips as the door bangs closed. He glances over at Lestrade.

“D’you want to go after him?” Lestrade asks, with a sigh.

“When he’s being such a drama queen?” John gives a short, harsh laugh. “No, thanks.”

“Well,” Lestrade says, slowly, drawing the word out. “If you’re planning on staying anyway, I need a post mortem. ASAP. Home Office orders. Something about ‘enhancing value’ and ‘meeting core goals in a timely fashion’.” He grimaces at the absurdity of the business-speak. “I just do as I’m told.”

John looks at the body, then back at Lestrade. “I’m not a pathologist.”

“But you know what to do right? In Afghanistan, you must’ve-”

John closes his eyes, ambushed by a particularly gruesome memory. He wants to say no, but when he opens them again, Lestrade is holding up his phone.

“Just cleared it with my Guv. You’re good to go.”

Procedure has clearly changed a lot, John thinks, with sigh of resignation. Regulations were a lot stricter at Bart’s in his day. The equipment is much the same though and, ten minutes later, he’s kitted out in green scrubs, a floor-length apron, nitrile gloves and shoes protectors, a face mask hanging loose around his neck and goggles pushed up onto the top of his head. As his assistant, Lestrade is similarly attired, holding a clipboard and pen.

“Okay,” John begins. “Name - Julia Stoner. Sex - Female. Age - thirty..?”

“Thirty-two,” Lestrade supplies, scribbling it all down.

“White. A hundred and ten pounds. Dyed blond hair. No obvious sign of trauma. Multiple ecchymoses.”

He spells out the unfamiliar word for Lestrade’s benefit, then begins a head-to-toe examination of the body, noting scars and moles, differences in skin texture. It’s the usual mix of childhood injuries, long healed, and dry patches. All very routine until John finds something interesting on the inside of the right ankle: tiny puncture wounds he hadn’t noticed before.

“Here,” he says, pointing. “These looks like …”

His voice trails off.

Lestrade comes closer, and he peers down at the spot.

“Like a bite from a normal-sized rat,” he says. “Think there’s a connection? With the Tilly Briggs?”

“That’s a question for Sherlock, not me,” John says, and gets back to work.

Stoner’s blood and tissue work - speedily carried out by a young and charmingly eager assistant pathologist-in-training - confirms John’s visual observations: damage to the internal organs - heart, liver and kidneys. Elevated serum bilirubin. Electrolyte abnormalities. Cytokine overload.

“Poisoning,” he murmurs, running a finger down the numbers.

Lestrade’s mouth twists. “So, definitely a murder?”

“Maybe?” John replies. “Maybe not. But you’re asking the wrong person. I’m just the side-kick, remember? The annoyingly more successful blogger.”

Something warm flickers in Lestrade’s eyes and he grins. “Don’t let him get to you. It’s not like he can help being a dick.”  
 

________________

   
Mycroft is warmly anticipating the arrival of his morning coffee when his phone gives a short trill. He removes it from his inside pocket and, on seeing the caller’s ID, smiles to himself.

“Gregory,” he purrs. “I trust you have good news of the match?”

On the other end of the phone, Lestrade hesitates, the pre-agreed words triggering the Fallen’s recollection of the need to be circumspect. Mycroft hears him clear his throat.

“Very good. Your forecast was spot on. Bit of rain. A rumble or two of thunder, but no lightning strikes.”

“Excellent!” Mycroft cries, delighted with both this information and Lestrade’s marvellous performance. “Are we to expect a resumption of the match, then?”

“They’re making their way back onto the pitch right now, I reckon.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mycroft nods. “I do so love the sound of leather on willow. I think I might try to catch the end of play, if there’s time. Thank you, Gregory. That will be all.”

Still smiling, Mycroft ends the call. Things seem to be going rather well. Lestrade has clearly found a case which will intrigue Watson and, at the same time, give Sherlock an opportunity to dazzle. Meanwhile Sherlock has been true to his word and been abrasive enough to cause friction between himself and the Nephilim.

A knock at the door interrupts Mycroft’s self-satisfaction. It’s Anthea - but without his coffee, he notes sadly. Instead, she holds a sheet of A4 paper in her hand.

“The information you wanted, sir,” she says, handing it over. Her notes are hand-written. No computer copies anywhere, then - exactly as requested.

Mycroft beams.

“Your work is exemplary,” he tells her. “Exemplary, my dear.”

She flushes a little and smiles.

“Thank you, sir.”

And like the perfect Personal Assistant she is, she quickly melts away.

Mycroft locks his government papers away, dons his coat and leaves the office, tossing a quick, “Off to see the last couple of overs!” to the Earthian on Reception as he quits the building.

Outside, on Parliament Street, he flags down a passing cab.

“Headley,” he tells the driver. “Surrey.”

“Whereabouts in Headley?” the driver asks, twisting around in his seat. He’s fiftyish, grey-haired like Lestrade, but heavy-jowled and with florid-cheeks. Undiagnosed heart condition, Mycroft finds himself thinking. He’ll be dead before he’s sixty.

“Headley Court.”

At the sound of that name, the driver somehow contrives to appear less messy and more disciplined.

“Brilliant place, that,” he murmurs, glancing in his rear-view mirror, before moving out into the traffic. “Fit for heroes. And no more than our boys deserve.”

 

Mycroft finds Major James Sholto in the gym, pummelling away at a six-foot punch-bag. His fair skin is flushed from exertion and covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and the edges of the bandaging on his face and neck have turned dark with with it.

“Impressive,” Mycroft remarks, approaching.

Sholto’s shrewd, blue-eyed gaze flicks up.

“Mr Holmes?” he says and, dropping his gloved fists to his sides, steps out of range of the still swinging bag. “I was told you’d be coming.”

“Then you’ll also have been told why,” Mycroft says and pulls out his Home Office ID. Sholto examines it carefully before handing it back, then stands subtly at attention, displaying the ingrained deference of a soldier to a superior officer.

Mycroft glances around. A handful of injured men are going single-mindedly about their exercise routines, and the gym is a jumble of sound: heavy breathing, metallic creaks and groaning wood. Somewhere a radio is playing rhythmic, popular music, and the air conditioner hums. Little risk of being overheard, Mycroft concludes, and yet he lowers his voice anyway out of habit.

“Have you got it?”

Sholto gives a short nod and walks over to where a sports bag lies on the floor near the window.

“In here,” he says, picking it up. “All the data you wanted. Heart and respiration rates. Liver and kidney function. Reflex tests.”

Mycroft reaches out a hand to take the bag, but Sholto hesitates.

“If this weren’t a matter of national security ... He’s a good man, Mr Holmes - the best.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees. “I’ve met him.”

An anxious smile twitches across Sholto’s face as he relinquishes the bag and the precious files it contains.

“The data will be kept secure,” Mycroft assures him. “And you can rest easy in the knowledge that you have done your duty.”

“Yes,” Sholto says. “All the same, it doesn’t come easy. I was his commanding officer. His … friend. He trusted me. And going behind his back like this-”

“There is no other way to ensure his safety. The mission is a highly sensitive one - indeed, the future of this country - and potentially even further afield -  may depend on it. That’s why I _know_ Major Sholto, that I can rely on your complete discretion, and that you will tell no-one - and I do mean no-one - about this.”  
 

________________

   
Predictably, John has gone to work without a good-bye, leaving Sherlock to reflect on the events of last night at the mortuary, the buzzing in his brain an echo of the the drone of Hudson’s hoover as she moves about the flat. He almost wishes he didn’t have the Stoner case so well in hand. If he were occupied with deciding his next move, and the next, he could avoid thinking about what he’s doing - what he’s _having_ to do - to John completely. He’s gone too far this time, he knows. He ridiculed John not just for his occupation (which was bad enough), but for his story-telling and his age too. No wonder he didn’t immediately follow Sherlock home.

At last the vacuum cleaner falls blessedly silent but as Sherlock looks around in relief, he finds Hudson frowning at him.

“You two had another domestic?” she asks.

“Earthians are so difficult to live with,” Sherlock sighs.

Hudson rolls her eyes. “You don’t need to tell me, dear. I married one.”

“I don’t know how you bore it,” Sherlock says, though his sympathy is for himself not her.

Hudson gives a little shrug.

“Love,” she says, and her eyes flick upwards, towards John’s room. “Go and talk to him. It’s all right. I won’t tell your brother.”

If only it were that easy. If only Sherlock could explain everything to John and put things right.

“Can’t,” he says, shaking his head.

“No such thing as ‘can’t’ for an Angel, dear,” Hudson says firmly. “There’s only ‘will’ or ‘won’t’.”  
 

________________

   
John hasn’t been having a good day. The work’s been fine - with just enough variety and challenge to reassure him he’s neither wasting his time nor losing his edge - but the moments between patients have been horrible. As soon as the door closes, leaving him alone, his thoughts instantly return to Sherlock, and to the painful recognition that ever since that kiss, that wank, things have been slowly falling apart. If he’d known it would turn out like this … He sighs. He’d probably have done exactly the same. Having something of Sherlock, even just once, is definitely better than never having had him at all. John only wishes he’d taken the time to savour it. That he’d made it last. Particularly as it seems to have cost him his friend.

The afternoon ploughs on, and John has just finished reassuring an anxious young mother that her baby’s constant crying is a sign of nothing worse than a particularly healthy pair of lungs when his phone bleeps a text alert.

_Baker Street. Now. I need you. SH_

John traces the line of words with his thumb, half-expecting them to disappear under the sweep of it, but no, they’re still there and John feels a grin pull at the corners of his mouth. He looks up. Outside it’s raining but John feels as if there’s sunshine pouring into the room.

_When I can. Working. J_

Sherlock’s reply is almost instantaneous.

_This IS work._

John’s grin gets wider.

_Yeah but THIS is paid work._

_When can you get away?_

_Afternoon surgery ends at 4.30_

_I’ll meet you there._

John’s last consultation over-runs, so it’s quarter to five by the time he makes it outside. Sherlock is waiting, coat collar turned up, and pacing. The street is still wet from the rain but the sun is breaking through again, and turning the leaves on the London planes that line the street a vibrant, glossy green. The combination is so lovely - so London and _home_ \- that it takes John's breath away. He’s still trying to catch it when suddenly Sherlock turns and spots him. He stalks over, elegant black shoes striking the pavement purposefully. John doesn’t think he’s really looked at Sherlock’s feet before. They’re long, slender and something about them makes his stomach grow tight. _Fuck_. He’s getting aroused by Sherlock’s _feet_ now. There really is no help for him.

“Hi,” he says - casually - when Sherlock comes to a halt in front of him.

“You said half past.” It’s an accusation, the set of Sherlock’s mouth petulant.

“Yeah,” John agrees. “But patients are human beings, remember? Not machines. They’re unpredictable.”

Sherlock’s face darkens, John’s subtle dig clearly not lost on him, and he seems on the point of launching into yet another lecture on the virtue of logic over feeling when he catches himself.

“Yes,” he mutters, and drops his gaze. “Of course. Come on.”

With that, he strides away again, forcing John to hurry after him.

“Sherlock,” John says - almost pants - falling into step beside him. “I didn’t get chance to tell you last night. Julia Stoner’s ankle. There were-”

“Puncture wounds,” Sherlock says, with a nod.

“You saw them?” John feels a bit deflated.

“I have eyes.”

“Oh. So, uh, where are we going?”

“Scene of the crime.”

“Crime?”

“Obviously.”

It’s an hour-long taxi ride from Marylebone Road to Leatherhead and another five minutes down a winding lane before the cab sets them down outside Stoner's home. Stone-built and grey-gabled, it's got the look of an old country manor and is what John would call imposing.

“Blimey,” he murmurs, following Sherlock up the steps to the front door. “She wasn’t short of a bob or two then.”

“It’s her stepfather’s,” Sherlock tells him, pressing a gloved forefinger to the doorbell. “Doctor Graham Roylott.”

John frowns. “Should I know the name?”

“Only if you’re in the habit of buying cosmetics. He moved into producing them two years ago after a career in pharmaceuticals.”

The front door is opened a woman in her late twenties. She bears a striking resemblance to Julia Stoner, albeit with grey-streaked light brown hair and a far more patrician nose. Behind her stands a large man with greying temples and a neat beard framing his youthful face. To John’s quiet satisfaction, they both recognize Sherlock immediately.

“Sh-Sherlock Holmes,” the woman stammers.

“Y-e-s?” Sherlock glances at John, and John does his best not to grin in front of grieving relatives, even as he revels in this concrete proof of his blog’s popularity. Proof that even Sherlock can’t ignore.

“Thank god,” the woman says. “Come in. I’m Helen - Julia’s sister - and this is our - _my_ stepfather, Graham Roylott.” She turns to John, offering him a smile. “And you’re Doctor Watson. I recognize you from your blog.”

John shoots Sherlock a pointed look and shakes hands with Helen and Roylott.

“The police seem convinced,” Helen goes on, “that Julia died because -” Her voice catches for a moment, but she swallows hard and composes herself. “They say she must have contracted some kind of bacterial infection. Probably from her work with the homeless.”

Sherlock, meanwhile, is too busy scanning the details of Roylott’s self-consciously Olde Worlde hallway, particularly the large Welsh dresser with its mountain of correspondence and papers, to bother replying. Embarrassed by his lack of interest, John decides to speak for him.

“You don’t agree?”

Helen Stoner shakes her head.

“No. She was always very careful. Obsessive about hand-washing, and had all the injections. She’d started complaining of feeling unwell, but she looked after herself. Mr Holmes. She was very-”

“I’ll need to look around,” Sherlock says. He fixes Roylott with a penetrating look. “I take it you have no objections?”

“None whatsoever. Julia may not have been my flesh and blood but she was very dear to me,” Roylott says firmly, though when he looks at Helen, his eyes, like hers, well with tears. “To us both. So like her mother.” He dashes away a tear with a knuckle. “Whatever you need to do, Mr Holmes - please, go ahead.”  
 

________________

   
By the time Mycroft arrives at Bart’s almost all the pathology wing’s workforce has gone home. With John’s medical records - stripped of all identifying details - hidden in an anonymous manilla file and tucked safely inside his briefcase, Mycroft ascends the back stairs and lets himself into Path Lab 2.

Stamford looks up from the broadsheet crossword he appears to be completing with ease and raises an acknowledging hand.

“With you in minute.”

He frowns at his puzzle again, taps his pen against his lips, then scribbles in three answers in rapid succession before tossing both ballpoint and paper aside and rising from his seat.

Mycroft stares at him, astonished. All the other Fallens of his acquaintance know their place. His very presence engenders nervous scuttling and an almost risible desperation to please, and yet here is Stamford, acting as though the two of them were equals. _Friends_.

Mycroft sniffs and allows his top lip to curl.

“I hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”

“Not at all,” Stamford chuckles. “Not at all. Take a pew. Cuppa? I was just going to put the kettle on.”

“This isn’t a social call,” Mycroft replies, but Stamford ignores him, humming cheerfully to himself as he fills a kettle and drops tea bags into mugs.

Mycroft realizes he’ll have to wait. He scowls at the rudimentary seating. The high stools offer no back support but at least they don’t look actively insanitary - unlike the furniture in Sherlock’s flat. Nevertheless, he makes a show of brushing a stool off with his handkerchief before deigning to sit.

“So, what can I do for you?” Stamford asks, when his tea-making is done.

“I want you to take a look at some figures and give me your professional opinion,” Mycroft tells him. He extracts John’s paperwork from his briefcase and slides it across the desk.

Instead of taking it immediately, Stamford lifts a brightly enamelled tin from behind one of the microscopes and flips open the lid.

“Fancy a biscuit?”

Inside, the tin there’s a neat line of pale gold discs, dusted with sugar and giving off the irresistible aroma of lemon and vanilla. Mycroft can’t help himself. He takes one, telling himself he’ll just nibble at it delicately, but no sooner has its sweetness exploded on his tongue than he’s demolished it in two bites. His eyes close in bliss. The biscuit is crisp. Exquisite. Heavenly. When he opens his eyes again, Stamford is regarding him with more than a little amusement.

“Do not,” Mycroft warns, brushing the crumbs from his lips, “tell my brother about this.”

Stamford grins.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a wink. “Your secret’s safe with me. I’m very good at keeping secrets. Now, let’s have a look at this.”

He picks up John’s records with one hand, and adjusts his glasses with the other, then reads the numbers through carefully, humming to himself and nodding. When he’s done, he slides the sheet of paper back to Mycroft.

“Well?” Mycroft prompts, impatient.

Stamford shrugs. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whose figures they are,” Stamford replies placidly. “If they’re yours or your brother’s, my professional opinion is that you’re doing pretty well here, all things considered. If they’re a Fallen’s - ditto. But if they’re an Earthian’s … well, I’d say they should leave their body to medical science because, for a human, they’re exceptional. But you already knew that.”

With a great deal of effort, Mycroft manages to keep his expression neutral. He nods. “Yes.”

“Any point in asking for a name?” Stamford asks, a playful twinkle in his eyes. “An introduction?”

Mycroft shoots him A Look. “None whatsoever.”

It earns him a soft, clucking sound of unsurprised disappointment.

“No,” Stamford says. “I didn’t think so. Still, if you ever change your mind-”

“I won’t.”

Stamford gives a resigned shrug of his shoulders.

“But thank you for your help,” Mycroft offers, remembering his manners. Noblesse oblige, and all that. “And thank you for the tea and biscuits.”

“Any time,” Stamford replies. “Always happy to do my duty.” Eyes respectfully downcast, his gaze falls on the little biscuit tin with its colourful pattern of bird and flowers. He holds it out. “Here - why don’t you take these with you? I’ve got plenty more at home.”

Mycroft is surprised to find himself rather moved by the gesture and accepts the tin with a gracious tilt of the head.

“Most generous,” he says, patting the lid. “And please convey my compliments to Mrs Stamford. Her baking skills are beyond compare.”  
 

________________

   
If there’s one thing Sherlock’s sure of, it’s that Julia Stoner was murdered. But, as yet, he has no idea how or who by. (So much for having the case completely in hand!) Last night’s interview with her sister and stepfather yielded nothing of obvious use - the most annoying aspect of which was that it meant he was unable to impress John with his deductive skills. Oh, he seized upon Roylott’s mention of Stoner’s fiancé being a snake enthusiast, and instructed John to phone every zoo and menagerie within a twenty-five mile radius, but that was mainly to keep him in Baker Street for the rest of the night. Sherlock knows snake bites - he’s written a blog about them, in fact - and the wound on Stoner’s ankle isn’t one.

He lifts his violin from its case and goes over to retrieve the bow from its position on the music stand near the window. Down on the street, Earthians teem, going about their funny little lives. A few are on their own and many in groups, but mostly they’re in pairs. Sherlock tucks the violin under his chin, brings the bow to the strings and lets it slide over them, concentrating on the way the vibrations resonate through his shoulder, his chest, and jaw. He’s learnt a few tunes since coming to Earth - snatches of things he’s heard on John’s radio, advertising jingles from between the programmes John watches, and things John hums to himself when he’s cooking or ironing or tidying the flat. As Sherlock draws the bow back and forth, the fingers of his left hand find the tune that’s taking shape in his head - something slow, lonely, and achingly sad.

John’s upstairs.

Upstairs, on the phone to his girlfriend. This one’s called Jenny, though Sherlock prefers to think of her as ‘the one with the spots’. Remembering her name would make her important. And she isn’t. She can’t be. Even if John scarcely spared him the time to say ‘hello’ on his return from work before rushing off to phone her.

The tune Sherlock’s playing turns strident, loud. Devil’s Interval after Devil’s Interval, the tempo becoming frenzied until Sherlock can feel his forehead growing damp from the exertion of it, sweat sticking his hair to the back of his neck and pricking at his armpits.

“Bloody hell.” John’s voice seems to come from nowhere, but a glance tells Sherlock he’s been standing in the doorway for ages, watching and listening - though apparently not enjoying. He’s frowning, looking at Sherlock as if he thinks there’s something seriously wrong with him.

(If only he knew!) (There _is_.)

“What?” Sherlock snaps.

“Nothing.” John’s eyes are innocently wide but there’s the ghost of a smirk at his mouth. “From upstairs, it sounded like you were gutting a cat, that’s all. Glad you weren’t, though. We’re running out of fridge space.”

He’s altogether too cheerful, and Sherlock resents it. He glares.

“I was thinking.”

“Oh, just _thinking_ about gutting a cat. That’s all right, then. I’ll leave you to it. I’m going out.”

Sherlock’s throat tightens as if seized by an invisible hand. “No.”

John cocks his head to one side, nostrils flaring a little. “No? What d’you mean, ‘no’?”

“I - the case needs you.”

“What case?” John sighs. “Look, I know she was young, but young people die from infections too.”

Sherlock takes a step forward, putting himself between John and the door. “Have you forgotten you found puncture wounds?”

“No, but I phoned around - like you said. And there are no snakes missing from anywhere.”

Sherlock gives an impatient snort. “Don’t be an idiot. Julia Stoner’s boyfriend keeps snakes.”

“I thought you said-”

“I’ve changed my mind. We’re going to pay him a visit. Now. Whilst we still have the element of surprise. Get your coat.”

John’s half-way into the garment before he remembers he had other plans.

“I can’t,” he says, mouth twisting. “I told Jenny-”

“Text her,” Sherlock interrupts and put his own coat on.

For a moment, John hesitates, then he sighs, shrugs the rest of his coat on and thumbs a message into his phone. Whilst he’s doing so, Sherlock runs down the stairs to the street. John will think he’s in a hurry to hail a taxi, but the truth is he loves it when John chases after him.  
 

________________

   
Percy Armitage and Sherlock are getting on like a house on fire. They’ve barely stopped talking since Sherlock and John entered his overcrowded little flat. At first, John was astonished: Armitage is kind of weird and beardy - like Anderson in a corduroy jacket - and, for that reason alone, John was sure Sherlock would hate him. Now he sees he was wrong and that of _course_ they’d get on. They’re both obsessives.

At present, Sherlock is stooping down in front of the stack of vivaria ranged along the back wall of Armitage’s sitting room, gloved hands flat to his thighs and a rapt expression on his face as he takes in the jewel of Armitage’s collection: a saw-scaled viper.

“Beautiful,” he breathes.

The snake is almost three feet long, its body a patchwork of grey and black diamonds, with occasional bright flashes of white. As John watches, it flicks its tongue in Sherlock’s direction, trying to catch his scent through the glass, a sinuous, dangerous ripple of velvet. The sight gives John a jolt of visceral, primal fear. He’s seen one of those things _out_ of a cage - zig-zagging across the grey dust and stone at base camp in Khandahar, and he’s always loathed snakes.

“Look, John,” Sherlock urges, beckoning John over, but John stays firmly where he is.

“No, thanks. I’ll take your word for it.”

Sherlock casts him a sharp look, the kind of look that usually signifies he’s deduced something vital; predictably, it makes John’s skin crawl. Mostly because he knows what Freud reckoned: that a fear of snakes was really all about penises. John has never had much time for Freud, but suddenly he’s afraid that Sherlock does.

However, much to John’s relief, Sherlock’s sharp look quickly fades, and he goes back to talking to Armitage about snakes, and venom, and bites; about the gaps they can get through; and how low the temperature has to be before it slows them down.

By the time Sherlock’s had his fill of snakes - including letting Armitage drape a Rainbow Constrictor around his neck and shoulders - it’s still only seven o’clock. John experiences a sharp pang of regret. If he’d known they’d be done by now, he’d never have postponed his date with Jenny. In fact, there might still be time …

He goes to take out his phone but Sherlock stops him.

“No. I need you to check out Armitage’s alibi. On the night Julia Stoner died, he claims to have been taking part in a zoology symposium at Royal Holloway, followed by drinks at the Beehive with some of the delegates. I need to know whether that’s true, and I need to know as soon as possible.” He presses a leaflet into John’s hand and beams at him. “Just as well you cancelled your date, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John sighs. “Brilliant.”  
 

________________

   
With a sinking feeling, Mycroft remembers that this afternoon he has a meeting scheduled at the German Embassy with Berd Schaëfer, the newly appointed and deeply dull Federal Minister of Foreign Affairs. Normally a fan of clarity and precision, Mycroft can only groan. Herr Schaëfer will insist on dotting every single i and crossing every last t, which means Mycroft will have to work hard at remaining conscious if he doesn’t want to find himself subsumed by the Teutonic juggernaut. Brain work of such a demanding nature requires a massive intake of both nicotine and sugar, he decides. He slaps on another couples of patches and helps himself to another of Stamford’s wife’s exquisite shortbreads. The biscuit really is divine, and as Mycroft consumes it with the appropriate reverence, he idly wonders what Mrs Stamford is like. They’ve never been introduced and, as far as he knows, there are no pictures of the woman on file. She’s probably lost whatever charms she had that seduced Stamford from the One True Path long ago, and Management prefers its records to be aesthetically pleasing.

The sound of Westminster chimes through the open sash window provides an unwelcome reminder that the hour of Mycroft’s Germanic doom is nigh. He rises from his chair, brushes errant biscuit crumbs from his lips and lapels, and heads for the stairs. He’s decided to forego the official car in favour of walking: fresh air could make all the difference between being fully awake and falling asleep.

Mycroft’s chosen route takes him along Birdcage Walk where sunlight dapples down through the trees onto Londoners and tourists alike. The traffic lights at Buckingham Gate are against him and he’s forced to wait on the pavement amidst a horde of energetic young Brazilians - all of them fit, and tanned, and impossibly gorgeous. Despite his superior genes, Mycroft feels plump and pallid in comparison. A double-decker hoves into view and the Brazilians cheers and take photos. Mycroft smiles indulgently as one of the prettiest girls catches his eye - tourists will be tourists, after all - but instead of smiling back, or looking away, she sidles closer and presses something into his hand. He jerks in surprise and sees it’s a small white envelope, twice folded in two for easy concealment. When he looks up again, the young woman has gone, and the lights have changed. The crowd surges forward, and he’s swept along with it. He’s outside The Guide Association building before he has a chance to stop and investigate the envelope’s contents: a handwritten note on good paper, using quality ink.

 _Situation with M worse than it seemed,_ he reads. _We are all in danger - especially S. Need your help. Meet me outside Charles Tyrwhitt’s on Jermyn Street at 2.10 pm tomorrow. Ensure you are not followed. SW_  
 

________________

   
The shriek of a police car alarm invades Sherlock’s sleep long before he’s ready to wake and he grumbles a half-conscious protest into his pillow. There was something he was on the point of doing - something delicious and perfect - and he has to get back to it, before his chance slips away. He burrows deeper into the warmth enveloping him, pressing his body down hard in his unwillingness to surface. In a flash, it all comes back. John is under him, thighs spread and loosely cradling, arms draped softly over Sherlock’s back. With a sigh, Sherlock presses deeper still, pleasure flaring hot in his belly and scalding his spine. He presses again, rolls his hips - and now there’s friction too; a feeling that threatens to take his breath away, even as it makes his pelvis stutter and jerk. He hears a moan as lightning strikes him and then he’s shaking all over, gasping, and fighting for air. He can’t fight it, isn’t even sure he wants to, but slowly the crisis subsides, replaced by peace. Peace, and contentment, and a fierce, bright joy. ( _John_.) He reaches up to cup a hand to his face, only to find John’s not there - just an over-heated pillow and sweat-damp sheets, sticky against belly, chest and groin.

Somewhere in this bleak, new landscape, a bell is ringing, but Sherlock ignores it, frantically trying to recapture his dream. The ringing goes on, gets louder and nearer until all hope of a return to sleep is gone. He snatches up his phone and snarls into it.

“What?”

“Mr Holmes?” The distressed female voice in his ear sounds vaguely familiar. Sherlock struggles upright and scrubs at his hair.

“Who ..? What ..?”

“You said I should call. If anything changed. Or if I was worried.”

(Ah. A clue.) ( _Data._ )

“Miss Stoner,” Sherlock purrs, as if he knew all along. “And _has_ something happened?”

Helen Stoner exhales a small, embarrassed laugh. “I don’t know. It’s probably nothing …”

“Tell me.” Phone to his ear, Sherlock throws back the bedclothes and pulls on a dressing gown.

“I’ve started feeling ill. The same symptoms as Julia had before she started getting those marks. Fever, shivering, muscle aches, breathlessness. It could just be a virus, I know, but … “

Her voice dissolves into silence.

“You’re afraid,” Sherlock supplies.

Stoner gives another self-deprecating laugh. “You must think me awfully silly, Mr Holmes.”

“Not at all,” Sherlock murmurs, mind racing with possibilities. “This is serious. Very.”

The symptoms Helen Stoner’s experiencing sound like sepsis, and the muscle ache in particular is of grave concern. It means the disease is progressing.

“Listen,” Sherlock says quickly in an attempt to reassure - because Earthians are pathetically in need of reassurance and leadership. “You’re not in imminent danger, but if you feel worse, or develop any kind of a rash, call an ambulance immediately. Otherwise, John and I will be with you very soon.”

 

When Sherlock emerges from his room ten minutes later - freshly showered, crisply dressed and with his hair a wild, dark cloud - he knows he looks good. His purple shirt is John’s absolute favourite and his dark blue suit conveys an air of both elegance and command. Sherlock’s noticed the way John’s pupils dilate whenever he wears it; heard the sharp, sweet  intake of his breath.

Thus armoured, Sherlock ascends the little flight of stairs up to John’s room. After the briefest of taps - a mere formality - he walks in.

John’s still asleep, lying flat on his back, arms thrown up over his head and breathing softly. He’s not bothered with a pyjama top, revealing the coarse sandy hair at his armpits and the sprinkling of softer hair across his chest. Sherlock’s fingers itch to touch it. He wants to stroke and tease it, to bury his nose in John’s armpits and breathe him in.

As Sherlock stands watching, John’s his lips part on sigh. Sherlock could kick himself. He thought he was prepared but he wasn’t: it’s too like his dream. All it would take to make it real would be to climb onto John’s bed and over him.

No sooner has the thought entered Sherlock’s head than John starts to stir, arching against the pillows with a groan that goes straight to Sherlock’s groin. A moment later, John seems to sense he’s not alone (he has a soldier’s instincts after all) and he sits bolt upright, shoulders tense, arms braced against the bed, ready to propel him into battle. When his eyes meet Sherlock’s, he blinks rapidly and his tongue darts out to lick at his lips. Sherlock tries not to entertain the notion that John may have been dreaming too.

“Good morning, John,” he says, softly.

“Sherlock.” The word starts out as an acknowledgement but is soon tinged with resentment. “What the hell are you doing in my room at-” John looks at his alarm clock and blinks again. “- at quarter past seven?”

Sherlock raises both hands.

“Sorry. Sorry to wake you. But Helen Stoner woke me. You’re a doctor and she needs our help.”

“Right.” John nods, his resentment forgotten. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets to his feet. “What’s the plan?”

“To get to Leatherhead as soon as we can.”

John pulls a face and scratches at the back of his head. “Guess I’d better get a move on then.”

“You’ll come?”

John rolls his eyes. “Yes, of course I will. Of course.”

There was never really any doubt in Sherlock’s mind that he would, but with John barefoot and half-naked in front of him, expressing a little gratitude seems no more than he’s due, and Sherlock smiles warmly at him.

“Thank you.”

Nodding, John grunts something like “You’re welcome.”

(He’s perfect, he really is.) If they had time, Sherlock could look at him all morning.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Sherlock is confused. (Why isn’t John moving?) (Why is he just standing there, with his head cocked to one side?)

“I can’t go like this,” John says, plucking at his pyjama bottoms. “I need to get dressed.”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes. “Obviously.”

John sighs, as if his patience is being sorely tested. He tucks his chin in and raises his eyebrows.

“So, are you just going to stand there and watch?”

John - stepping out of his pyjama bottoms. John - naked. Skin, and muscle, and pubic hair. The sight of God, in his glory, is supposed to bring Angels to tears but right now there’s nothing Sherlock would like to see more than John without a stitch on. His pulse jumps at the pictures forming in his mind and he can feels himself growing hard. He closes his eyes. Shakes his head.

“No. Sorry. I’ll, uh, wait for you downstairs.”  
 

________________

   
Traffic on the A3 is heavy, the two inside lanes clogged with articulated lorries, and the outside lane nose-to-tail with rush hour drivers, all blasting their horns at the slightest provocation. Their impatience is infectious and the cab driver grumbles bitterly about bloody muppets as he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Meanwhile, Sherlock fidgets about in his seat, repeatedly checking his watch but not talking.

John takes out his phone. Jenny was perfectly reasonably about him cancelling at short notice last night, but he feels bad about it and now seems as good a time as any to try making amends. With Sherlock right next to him, he reckons an actual conversation with her would be awkward - if not impossible - so he texts instead.

_Sorry about last night. Emergency. Fancy a drink tonight? There’s a band on at The Social. Heard they’re pretty good. J_

Even though it’s early, Jenny replies almost at once.

_Brilliant. See you there at 8. J2 xxx_

John smiles, relieved, and tucks his phone back into his pocket.

“News?” Sherlock asks and John feels at prickle of … something at realizing Sherlock was watching him.

He shrugs, aiming for nonchalant. “Oh, you know …”

“Armitage’s alibi for the night Stoner died checks out?”

 _Oh_. Sherlock’s thinking about the case, John realizes. Well, of course he is. What else would he be thinking about? Just because he invades John’s mind at every spare moment, it doesn’t mean his stupidity is reciprocated.

John marshals his thoughts. “I phoned everyone from the Herpetology Club and they all said Armitage was there the entire time. Even arrived early to help set up and stayed behind afterwards to help put everything away. There’s absolutely no way he was anywhere nearby when Julia died.”

Sherlock nods, pressing his hands together beneath his chin. “Just as I thought.”

“Just as you thought?” John echoes. “So why did I spend all that time checking him out?”

Sherlock turns to look at him, brows raised. “Because I needed to rule out the impossible. We’re closer to the truth now.”

“Thanks to me?” John asks. Points out.

John sees Sherlock’s mouth twitch and knows he’s trying not to laugh. It makes John foolishly, giddily happy. At least they’re still friends.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, putting on a serious face. “Thanks to you.”  
 

________________

   
Helen Stoner has the washed-out, dazed look of someone who’s not been sleeping well, and the high colour and watery eyes of someone who’s been vomiting. One look at her and John’s doctorly instincts are on full alert. He sits her down, checks her pulse and breathing, all the while murmuring soft reassurances that now Sherlock’s here, everything will be fine.

It stops Sherlock dead in his tracks. He hates it when John promises things he’s not sure he can deliver. The prospect of failing - of failing _him_ \- makes his stomach churn.

“John’s faith in me is, as ever, deeply flattering,” he tells a somewhat shocked Helen Stoner, “but, as ever, he romanticizes. Because he’s a romantic.”

Stoner smiles nervously in reply, but when she turns to John her smile becomes alarmingly hopeful, and Sherlock wants to rip out his own tongue.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock is glad he’s not an Earthian. If he were, after what he’s just done, he’d probably think he’d forfeited all hope of ever going to Heaven. Luckily, he’s an Angel, and certain his action was in the best interests of all concerned. He’ll deal with Helen Stoner’s misplaced hopes later, but for now he feels entitled to congratulate himself on a job well done. The One With The Spots may well be enamoured of John, but allowing their relationship to continue would have been tantamount to dereliction of duty. It would certainly have resulted in far crueller heartbreak. John doesn’t love her. Couldn’t. Ever. Not when his heart belongs irrevocably to someone else.

Not that John is grateful, of course. He practically has steam coming out of his ears, and his fists are clenched tight with fury. It’s not his fault, of course: he doesn’t understand. At present, he can only see, as through a glass, darkly - but soon Sherlock will be in a position make his destiny clear to him. Meanwhile he has to suffer watching John pace Roylott’s fake-rustic living room, seething with resentment.

“What the hell were you thinking?” John finally growls, stomping away from Sherlock as if to restrain himself from violence, only to storm back again, right in Sherlock’s face. “Did you have to put it like that?”

“Why did I tell your girlfriend I need you? And that you’d be spending the night with me?” Sherlock asks, deliberately obtuse. “Because it’s the truth.”

“Yeah …” A little of the fight drains from John and he shakes his head. “But did you have to make it sound so …”

Delighted at John’s discomfiture (because it means something, even if John won’t admit it), Sherlock assumes an expression of absolute innocence: eyes wide, brows raised, gaze direct.

“So _what_?”

John grimaces, his shoulders sag and he looks away. “So _gay_ ,” he mutters, under his breath.

Sherlock waits until John looks up again.

“That bothers you?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” John says quickly - too quickly, and he knows it. He shakes his head, and starts babbling. “No. I mean … oh, damn it! I don’t know! But you’ve screwed everything up. She said she thought it best if we didn’t see each other again _in the circumstances._ ”

Sherlock allows himself a small smile.

“She wasn’t right for you,” he says. “You deserve someone better. Someone far better.”

John’s tongue comes out to lick at his lips. “I do?” He sounds doubtful.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, holding his gaze. “You do.”  
 

________________

   
Two hours ago, ordering a three-course dinner at The Bell and thus putting a bit of a dent in Sherlock’s bank balance only seemed fair, given that the havoc the arrogant git’s wreaked on his love-life; but now, John feels uncomfortably full and borderline queasy. Not that he can blame the latter simply on having overeaten. A big chunk of it is down to the prospect of spending the night - the whole bloody night - in a bedroom with Sherlock. It’s like his worst nightmare (a.k.a. his fondest wish) come true. If he’s not careful, he’s going to make an absolute tit of himself, and end up doing or saying something that’ll undermine his Not Gay protestations completely.

The grandfather clock out in Roylott’s hallway - a solid, square-edged thing that’s taller than John - chimes half-past nine and Helen Stoner announces she’s going to bed. John rises from the armchair he’s been occupying to walk her to the living room door, partly out of politeness and a desire to reassure, but mostly because it gives him something to do.

“Good night,” he says, and gives her arm a tentative pat. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

She smiles at him. “Good luck.”

She’s very pretty, in a non-obvious way, older than Jenny and more mature, and John wonders if perhaps his problem is that he’s just never gone out with the right kind of woman before.

Helen hesitates in the doorway, as if she wants to say something but, aware that Sherlock is radiating the kind of exasperation with her dithering that typically ends up with him saying something unforgivable, John chivvies her along.

“Sleep well,” he says, “and we’ll see you in the morning.”

She steps closer for a moment, a flush coming to her cheeks and blurts out, “I hope I see more of you than that. In future.”

Before John can reply, she turns away and hurries upstairs.

“Thank God,” Sherlock breathes as the sound of her footsteps fades away. “I thought we’d never get rid of her.”

John’s heart really shouldn’t skip a beat at that - Sherlock’s only being his usual, obnoxious self - but it could pass so perfectly for jealousy that, for a moment, John’s going to let himself believe Sherlock’s rejoicing in having seen off a rival.

“You don’t like her?” John asks, hopeful.

“I neither like nor dislike her,” Sherlock sniffs. “She was simply getting in the way. Come on. It’s time we went upstairs.”  
 

________________

   
Propped up in bed, back against the vast Baroque-style velvet headboard Sherlock sneers at, Mycroft scrolls down through Management’s list of Fallens in their employ in London. He’s finished the last of Stamford’s wife’s biscuits and is desperate for more. He’ll get Anthea to buy them in. By the crate.

“Spiers, Stafford, Stagg, Stanmore,” he reads aloud, enjoying the somewhat hypnotic effect of chanting. He should sleep well tonight.

Or not.

He stops scrolling down and scrolls back up again frantically, not chanting but staring.

There’s no ‘Stamford’ on the list.  
 

________________

   
If it weren’t for the look of near panic that sparks in John’s eyes the moment Sherlock shuts the door behind them, Sherlock would think nothing of the nature of the room. On Heaven, bedrooms are strictly for sleeping. The business-like, mechanical affair of procreation takes place in aseptic laboratories, where genetic material is extracted via robotic, not personal, stimulation and the donor remains anaesthetized throughout, and thus, mercifully, emerges from it with no recollection of the event.

However, John’s nervous arousal has planted a seed in Sherlock’s head and, when he glances towards the bed, it’s impossible not to imagine John laid out on it, under him, their bodies moving against each other as they did that night in the kitchen, finding a rhythm, seeking the ecstasy Management insists can only be found through communion with God.

Sherlock turns the key in the lock, and John almost jumps out of his skin.

“We have to do exactly what Julia Stoner did,” Sherlock reminds him, his own heart beating far too fast.

“Exactly what Julia Stoner did,” John echoes, enunciating the words slowly and deliberately. It seems to calm him, because he manages to focus on the case. “What’s first?”

“According to Helen Stoner, her sister came home after a night’s drinking - but, since there was no suggestion of Julia being drunk, there’s no need for us to consume alcohol.”

John nods again, looking hugely relieved. Sherlock has to admit he’s relieved too. Any lowering of his inhibitions could lead to all kinds of trouble.

“A bath,” John says, pointing to an open door in the wall beyond the bed, through which a pink and white-tiled bathroom is just visible. “Helen said Julia was complaining of feeling achy and decided to take a soak before bed.” His eyes meet Sherlock’s, and widen in alarm when he realizes what that means. “We, uh, don’t have to … do we?”

The last thing Sherlock wants to do is torment John. He has an extensive and imaginative list of things he’d much rather try but, since he can’t, a little of the Devil creeps into his soul and he fixes John with a wicked, penetrating look.

“Problem?”

John flushes beautifully, the heat rising from his throat, where his open shirt affords Sherlock a tantalizing glimpse of bare skin, and up over his cheeks to the very tips of his ears. Sherlock can practically hear the wheels spinning round in his head as a series of emotions plays out across his face. First there’s terror, then excitement, then shame. A moment later, John’s very obviously remonstrating with himself about reading too much into the situation and resolutely telling himself that they’re here to investigate one crime and possibly prevent another.

“All right,” John says, and begins peeling off his jacket as he heads towards the open en-suite door.

At the prospect of John stripping off completely, Sherlock knows the game has to stop. There’s only so much temptation he can resist. He grabs him by the arm and pulls him back.

“That was a bit mean of me,” he admits. “But, in my defence,” he adds, with a grin, “your reaction was hilarious.”

“You utter … cock,” John growls, but he can’t keep it up and, before long, he’s grinning too. “So what do we do?”

“Run a bath, of course,” Sherlock says, sliding past him. He leans over the tub and turns on both taps. When the water’s gushing, he looks around the room, momentarily confused by the excess of gold fittings and towels and inexplicable vases full of white and silver sticks.

John frowns and sniffs the air. “What’s that smell?”

Sherlock sniffs too.

“Rose,” he diagnoses. “Lavender. Orange blossom. Bath oil! John, you’re a genius!”

Along the rim of the bath, there’s an array of soaps and candles, but only one plastic bottle. It’s half-empty. ( _Used_.) The liquid inside is a pearlescent pink.

John picks it up.

“ _Belle de Soir_ ,” he says, reading the label, and squooshes a little jet of it under the taps but, as he bends forward to mix it more thoroughly by hand, Sherlock suddenly knows how Julia Stoner died. Horrified, he leaps forward and catches John by the wrist just in time.

“Don’t!” he gasps. “It’s poison!”

John is so startled, he drops the bottle into the bath, where it bobs around innocently in the rippling water.

“Poison? What the hell ..?”

Sherlock claps his hands together, triumphant.

“Oh, he’s clever. Very clever. This is perfect.”

A little noise of frustration escapes John.

“Is he? Yeah, well, I’m not. And any time you want to explain-”

“Roylott!” Sherlock cries, inwardly lamenting the dulling effect of a few Earthian genes on the Angelic brain. “He runs a cosmetics company, remember? And worked for the drugs industry before that.”

Eyes searching Sherlock’s face, John nods slowly. “Yeah, but I don’t see-”

“This bubble bath-” As ever, Sherlock is carrying nitrile gloves. He pulls them on and retrieves offending bottle from the water. “Have you ever seen it on sale? Ever heard of it? Seen an advert?”

“No,” John replies. “But, then again, I’m not in the habit of buying beauty products.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow.

“Really? With the number of girlfriends you’ve had? No wonder they keep dumping you. Anyone would think your heart wasn’t in it.”

John’s expression darkens.

“At least _I_ have girlfriends,” he mutters. “Unlike some”

They’re on dangerous ground now and, before John can go plunging into the quicksand of Sherlock’s romantic past - or rather, lack thereof - Sherlock marches away, back towards Julia Stoner’s locked bedroom door. He throws it open and shouts for Helen.

Somewhere along the hallway, a door opens and Helen comes running. She’s let down her hair and changed out of the office clothes she was wearing earlier into something softer and more feminine. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees John notice it too.

“What is it?” Stoner asks with a frown. “Have you discovered something?”

“Until recently,” Sherlock declares, with a flourish designed to reclaim John’s fickle attention, “you’ve been in the habit of taking showers, not baths.”

Stoner blinks.

“Yes. But how-?”

“Not important,” Sherlock says. “Although it’s obvious to anyone with eyes to see. You work for an environmental charity. Your ID badge was on the dresser in the hall. In fact, it’s a charity which works to provide clean water for remote communities in third world countries. Taking a bath, to you, is emblematic of thoughtless privilege. The waste of a precious resource.”

Helen Stoner nods.

“But a couple of weeks ago,” Sherlock continues, acutely aware of how John’s holding his breath now and watching him intently, “your stepfather asked you and your sister to try out his new bubble bath blend.”

Stoner nods again, the little muscles around her mouth and eyes tightening.

“You thought you were doing him a favour but, in fact, you were being slowly poisoned. Julia - having less of a social conscience - quickly succumbed.” Sherlock stops and grins widely as a thought occurs to him. “There you go - proof that concern for the environment is in a person’s own best interest!”

“Sherlock,” John groans, as Stoner’s face suddenly crumples, one hand coming up to cover her mouth as her eyes fill with tears. “Not good.”

Confronted with a weeping Earthian female and a Nephilim oozing disapproval at his lack of empathy, Sherlock goes quickly on the defensive.

“Don’t you see?” he demands urgently, leaning in towards John. “I’ve solved the case. Plus, I’ve saved this woman’s life.”

John gives him a sad, weary smile. “Yeah. You’re a genius.”

And so saying, he wraps an arm around Stoner’s shoulder and leads her, still sniffling, quietly away.  
 

________________

   
John must have turned the gas on the hob up too high because a spurt of orange sauce erupts from the pan of beans he’s heating to splatter the tiled bit of wall behind the cooker. He adjusts the flame and dampens a cloth to wipe the stain away before it has time to harden and dry. You can’t beat Victorian glazed tiles for cleanliness, he finds himself thinking when it comes clean away - before instantly realizing you can. Which is why all the hospitals he’s ever worked in systematically ripped them out to replace them with silver-infused, antimicrobial plastics. He smiles to himself. He supposes he’s just feeling sentimental about 221B. It may not be as luxurious as Roylott’s mansion, but no-one here has been secretly trying to kill the other - apart from through unrequited lust.

Right on cue, Sherlock appears from his room looking rumpled and still half-asleep, in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He scowls at John, then rubs at his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly ten,” John tells him. “Looks like we both slept in. Mind you, last night was a late one.”

It really was. By the time the police arrived at the Roylott’s and taken their statements, it was past midnight, and there was an hour-long taxi ride back to Baker Street after that. Still, it was worth it for the look on Helen’s face. John touches the back pocket of his jeans, feeling for the business card she slipped him as they left. He’ll call her later today, on the pretext of asking if she’s feeling all right.

“What have you got there?”

Sherlock is eyeing John’s hand, still resting on his  back pocket. Because nothing escapes his notice - especially not the things John doesn’t want him to see.

“Nothing,” John tries, only to be met by a disbelieving roll of Sherlock’s eyes. “Nothing important,” he amends and thankfully that seems to satisfy Sherlock, who drops the subject and starts fumbling around in a cupboard for a mug.

“Beans on toast?” John asks, tilting his head towards the pan.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

“What is it with you and beans?” He tips his head to one side, lips pursed as he ponders, smiling as enlightenment apparently dawns. “Ah, yes! Your Army days. You associate the smell, taste and texture with excitement and the camaraderie of other men. Although your emotional attachment will obviously have deeper roots. Childhood associations most likely-”

“Yes. Thank you,” John interrupts sharply. “Leaving all that aside, d’you want some?”

“Just tea, thanks,” Sherlock answers, and he plants the mug down in front of John before sailing off into the living room.

“You ought to eat something,” John says. “You had nothing at the pub last night and I bet you haven’t eaten for days.”

“I had something on Tuesday evening,” Sherlock says airily from his armchair where he’s opening up his laptop. “I’m good until tomorrow night.”

John sighs and walks over to the doorway where he can give Sherlock his best doctor-knows-best frown. “For God’s sake, Sherlock. The human body needs a bit of sustenance.”

Sherlock’s already started typing, but he looks up, something weird in his eyes.

“What if I said …” He bites his lip. Stops.

John finds himself walking towards him. “What if you said _what_?”

Sherlock meets his gaze and blinks, his expression flickering between an almost-smile and a grimace. His Adam’s apple bobs and John thinks he’s never seen this Sherlock before, a Sherlock quivering on the edge of hope and despair, but a heartbeat later, Sherlock’s himself again and giving John an ear-to-ear grin.

“What if I said I’d just eaten half a packet of chocolate digestives in bed?”

He’s lying, John knows; just as he knows there’s no point pursuing this.

“I’d say you were courting type two diabetes,” he mutters, and goes back to his beans.

By some miracle, Sherlock’s chemistry equipment has been shunted up the kitchen table, leaving a good two feet of it clear of test-tubes and atrocious liquids, and John sits down at it to eat, the familiar clatter of Sherlock’s keyboard a comforting whirr in the background - for all of five minutes. Because suddenly Sherlock’s laptop goes flying across the room landing on the settee with a soft thump.

“It makes no sense, John,” Sherlock says, joining him in the kitchen. “There’s no money involved. No sex.”

John looks up at him. “And we’re talking about ..?”

Sherlock shoots him a look of pure exasperation.

“The case! The Stoner case. Julia and Helen’s mother left them each a small sum of money, payable on the occasion of their marriage, but Roylott’s a multi-millionaire. Ten thousand pounds is just loose change to him.”

“Lucky him,” John mutters, thinking ruefully of his own bank balance.

“And he wasn’t having an affair with either of his stepdaughters, so it wasn’t a crime of passion.” Sherlock slams his hands down on the table top, making his flasks and vials rattle. “It makes no sense! He was their father.”

“Perhaps he was just a vicious bastard,” John says. “Some of them are.”

It’s out before he can stop himself and he squirms with shame. What the hell possessed him? Sherlock was never going to let something like that pass.

“John-”

“No.” John holds up a hand, shaking his head as the bitter memories come flooding back. He looks down at his plate, unable to bear Sherlock’s pity. “Don’t. I can’t.”

Sherlock doesn’t say a thing, just stands there, not moving, and John can feel him looking at him - feel the frustrated need to do something pouring off him. The silence goes on and on, getting heavier and heavier, until John simply can’t stand it. He raises his eyes again and offers Sherlock a reassuring smile.

“It’s all right. I’m fine.”

Sherlock smiles back, just a little smile, but a genuine one.

There’s another long silence, then Sherlock speaks.

“I scarcely remember mine," he says softly. "Or my mother. They died.”

John's heart clenches.

"I'm sorry," he says, but the words sound feeble, hollow. Sherlock's his _friend_. He ought to be able to offer him more. He takes a tentative step forward. Reaches out a hand. 

And Sherlock's phone rings. It makes them both jump.

"I'd better ..." Sherlock mutters, pulling the phone from his pocket.

"Yes," John agrees, half disappointed, half relieved. "Yes, of course."  
 

________________

   
Mycroft’s coffee is delicious - but he’s not drinking it for the taste. He’s drinking it to keep awake. Another day, another meeting - this one with the Delegated Powers and Regulatory Reform Committee. Ordinarily, such a meeting would be what the Home Secretary calls ‘a walk in the park’ - because none of their Lordships could be considered Mycroft’s intellectual peer, even by their own mothers - but after spending the night trying to discreetly track down information on Stamford, and drawing a blank at every turn, Mycroft’s so tired that the world seems to be running too fast. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. He’s been here too long. He needs to rest.

When he opens his eyes again, his office is flooded with light. Sunshine is streaming in through the window, bouncing back off every polished surface - and there are hundreds of them, Mycroft realizes, wincing - but the brightest spot in the room is Gabriel: white suit, gold tie, hair a light, light blond.

Mycroft pushes up from his seat, the Arch’s presence stirring an instinctive need in him to stand, to kneel - to revere - but Gabriel signals him to sit again and Mycroft subsides, heart taut against his ribcage. Gabriel knows something. And if he knows what Mycroft fears he knows, Mycroft is in the most terrible trouble. He does his best not to tremble or look afraid.

“Grave news,” Gabriel says, pressing his hands together, and bowing his head. “Sebastian Wilkes …”

“Yes?” Mycroft’s throat is dry.

“Is dead.”

Mycroft recoils in his seat, information and emotion colliding. Not so very long ago, this news might have cheered him; now he knows Wilkes didn’t despise Sherlock for his youthful Attachment, but actually admired him, and that leaves him regretful on a personal level. But more importantly, in Mycroft’s book, is the question of whether he’s to blame. Is this the result of his having told Adler Wilkes’ name? But Wilkes was an Authority, and an Authority protected by three Guardians, no less. They’d never have let Adler near him - Mycroft _hopes_.

“Wh-what happened? Who ..?” He grinds to a halt, realizing there’s a far more likely suspect.

Gabriel is watching him, waiting.

“Moriarty?” Mycroft ventures.

Gabriel nods.

Mycroft’s mind races. If the case is already solved, why is Gabriel here? What does he want? Is he pointing the finger? Mycroft’s heart gives a hard, guilt-laden thud, and he feels his pulse throb at the base of his throat. He gave Moriarty Irene Adler in exchange for Sherlock’s life … He blinks, and a cold sweat breaks out on his back, from the nape of his neck, across his shoulders and down his spine. What if Adler and Moriarty have made some kind of pact? In his mind’s eye, Mycroft sees the pit of Hell opening up beneath his feet. Feels its fire scald his feet. He’s doomed, Hell-bound, and Gabriel’s here to drag him there.

“I-I …”

Gabriel raises his hand to make the same placating gesture as before.

“Measures are being taken,” he says, with a soft, sad smile. “But this is no easy task, nor one that will swiftly be achieved. I’m sorry to have to tell you that both you and Sherlock are at risk. We know from his earlier attempt on Sherlock’s life that Moriarty wants him dead, and now he’s abandoned Heaven’s precepts so thoroughly, it is likely you are a target by association.”

“You’re here to-” Mycroft can scarcely believe his ears.

“Warn you.” Gabriel moves closer, reaching out to lay his hand on Mycroft’s should like a benediction. “Your work here is essential. Management would be grieved to lose you.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, but finding nothing to say, quickly closes it again.

“Be vigilant,” Gabriel urges, stepping back. “And advise Sherlock to do likewise.”

Mycroft nods, mute with shock, and he’s left gripping the arms of his chair long moments after Gabriel has silently melted away.  
 

________________

   
Just as it’s beginning to get dark, the sound of a key turning in the lock downstairs and a sudden inrush of noise from the street has Sherlock leaping up from the settee where he’s been huddled listlessly ever since John left. He hurries out onto the landing full of hope that John’s decided to come home early. It would say so much if he has. It would _mean_ so much.

But it’s not John. The gait of the person down in the entrance hallway is a lop-sided waltz, not a march. (Two feet and the tip of an umbrella, to be precise.) ( _Mycroft._ ) (What does _he_ want?) Sherlock stalks over to the window and looks down onto the street. Mycroft’s government car is crouched at the kerbside like some enormous, black cat. (He’s come here directly from work. This is must be mission-based call.) Sherlock returns to the settee to wait.

“You didn’t bother getting dressed today, then?” Mycroft says, nostrils flaring with disapproval as he takes in Sherlock’s dressing gown, pyjamas and naked feet.

“Why should I?” Sherlock returns. “ _I’m_ not at anyone’s beck and call.”

“No, indeed,” Mycroft agrees, and he looks down at his umbrella, examining the handle needlessly.

He looks tired, Sherlock realizes. Anxious. Which makes Sherlock anxious too. He jumps to his feet again.

“What is it? Is it John?”

“John?” Mycroft blinks. “No. It’s …” He stops, looks around. “Is John here?”

“He’s gone out."

“Ah.” Mycroft nods his head. “I see.”

“What?” Sherlock snaps, pulling his dressing gown tighter, because this is how Mycroft was when they were children; claiming to know everything that was going on in Sherlock’s head. “ _What_ do you see? Because if you’re implying-”

“Sherlock, Sherlock!” Mycroft coos, smiling indulgently. “I’m not implying anything.”

He is, of course. He's implying that John's gone out, seeking sex - because that's exactly what Sherlock's afraid of. That, and whether he'll ever be able to keep John's ravenous Nephilim sex drive satisfied. He has such limited knowledge about what John's Earthian side might need; no practical experience at all, except that one night.

“I had a visit,” Mycroft says. “From Gabriel. It’s bad news I’m afraid.” He pauses, shooting Sherlock a concerned look, as if fearful of his reaction. Sherlock braces himself. “Sebastian Wilkes is dead.”

Sherlock heart gives a painful lurch. What he once felt for Sebastian Wilkes was nothing compared with what he feels for John and yet …

“Dead?” he asks, scarcely able to speak. “How?”

Mycroft shrugs.

“I didn’t ask - the detail isn’t important. The balance of probability would suggest he was killed by Moriarty. Gabriel recommends - and I agree - that we both be extra vigilant, since one of us may be his next target. In fact, Gabriel thinks you might be in particular danger, given what happened before. You need to be careful, Sherlock - you and your Earthian.”

“My _Earthian_?” Sherlock demands, offended and ready to jump down Mycroft’s idiot throat. Then he realizes what Mycroft’s doing and a look of understanding passes between them. “Well, since you’re here,” Sherlock says with a petulant sigh for the sake of anyone eavesdropping, “I suppose you want tea.”

He flicks his gaze from Mycroft to the kitchen, and jerks his head in the same direction.

“That would be lovely,” Mycroft returns and together they move into the kitchen.

At the sink, Sherlock turns both taps on. “Why all this cloak and dagger stuff?” he whispers, his words almost lost in the sound of rushing water.

“Because your flat might be bugged,” Mycroft hisses back. “And it’s not just Wilkes … Stamford isn’t a Fallen. I don’t know what he is, or who he’s working for, but he’s the one who found John for you. This puts your relationship with John in a whole new light.”

“There is _nothing_ ,” Sherlock says, speaking slowly and deliberately and with complete conviction, “wrong with John.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t say there was. Only that he may be an unwitting pawn in someone else’s game.”

“And if he is?”

Mycroft looks Sherlock in the eye, his expression grim.

“If he is, should anything happen to you, John Watson will have outlived his utility.”


	11. What He Likes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Stamford mystery deepens, a new relationship seems to be developing between Mycroft and Lestrade. Meanwhile, from the best of motives (and, okay, a pretty selfish one too), Sherlock does something more than a bit not good ...
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING: NSFW, masturbation, drugged masturbation, dub-con**

It’s taken days to arrange, combined with ruthlessness in scheduling, but Mycroft has finally managed to clear his diary, allowing him to spend the morning investigating Mike Stamford. The task is proving more difficult than expected: Stamford’s name is not only missing from the list of Fallens, it’s absent from the electoral register, as well. _And_ the telephone directory. Stamford has no credit record, no National Insurance number. It’s almost as if he were a ghost.

The obvious approach, and definitely the one least likely to count against Mycroft in the long run, would be to contact Gabriel or Michael. He can think of a dozen solid reasons for doing so - including preventing his access to The Seven being cut still further - but he fears a poorly chosen adjective, or a less than even tone of voice might betray his personal interest in the matter. One thing is clear: rightly or wrongly, Stamford enjoys Heaven’s confidence. Whether he deserves that confidence is what Mycroft needs to find out. If only Sherlock had brought his laboratory equipment with him to this benighted little planet, they could strap Stamford to its metal frame and shock the truth out of him. As it is, Mycroft fears he could question Stamford until he’s blue in the face and learn nothing at all. It’s a depressing, frustrating prospect - one that would be faced more easily with the aid of one of Mrs Stamford’s delicious biscuits, but there are none left and Mycroft can see no way out of this impasse.

It’s started raining, the insistent clatter of raindrops against the windows like the furious tapping of impatient fingertips. His concentration now thoroughly disrupted, he gets up and goes over to the window. The scrap of sky beyond the glass is growing ever darker. London really does have the most unstable climate. Only this morning there was bright sunshine. Mycroft pities the poor souls foolish enough to have ventured out without an umbrella - he himself is never without one. In the street below, he sees school children, racing along the pavements, their wet white cotton shirts transparent and clinging. There are businessmen, too, in woollen suits growing stiffer and heavier with the damp, and office girls teetering through puddles in open-toed high heels, coiffed hair wilting.

The thought of bedraggled young women in general makes Mycroft think of one in particular. He leans across his desk, flicks the intercom back on and calls for his car.  
 

________________

   
John’s phone rings, just as he’s arriving at the clinic. He takes it out expectantly.

“Hi. Doctor Watson … _John_? It’s Helen. Helen Stoner.”

John's spirits slump. Bloody hell. Now he feels bad. He meant to call her, he really did, but then he started thinking, which is always a bad move when it comes to having a sex life - just look at Sherlock. If John had met Helen in a bar, he'd definitely have given her a ring, but in the circumstances, it seemed wrong, something no decent bloke would do. She’d just lost her sister.

He clears his throat and adopts a tone of happy surprise. “Helen! Hi! I was going to phone-”

“I got your number from your blog. I hope you don’t mind. I mean, it was there. Public. It’s not like I had to-”

“It’s fine,” John says.“I’m glad you called. It’s nice to speak to you.”

Across the road, Sarah is approaching, black leather briefcase in hand. She smiles and waves hello, mouthing “Sherlock?” and John’s almost certain he sees a twinkle in her eye before she stoops down to unlock the surgery doors.

“Don’t be too long,” she says over her shoulder, pushing through the doors. “We’re booked out solid this morning.”

“Sorry. I’d better go,” John tells Helen. “Busy day, apparently.”

“All right. I won’t keep you,” Helen replies. “I just wondered … well, you were so kind the other day. It’s Julia’s funeral on Monday. Could you come? Hold my hand? Though, if you’d rather not, if you’re working-”

“Monday’s my day off,” John says, although it isn’t. “Of course I’ll come. I’d be honoured.”

Helen could obviously do with his support. She’s nice, and she’s undeniably pretty, and he likes her. He’ll talk to Sarah. Arrange a swap somehow. It’s not like anyone else is beating his door down for a date.  
 

________________

   
Molly Hooper is bundled up in a hand-knitted jumper, knee-length skirt and dark, thick tights - but she has neither coat nor umbrella. Her pony-tail has congealed into a solid rope in the rain, and the leather of the satchel over her shoulder has turned blotchy. Mycroft signals his driver to slow down. A secret is only as secure as its weakest link, and Miss Hooper is as weak as they come where Sherlock’s concerned.

When the Jag draws level with her, Mycroft lowers the electric window, and leans out. 

“Miss Hooper,” he says, smiling pleasantly. “May I offer you a lift?”

She flushes pink with confusion; blinks, smiles and backs away. 

“No. Thanks. No. I’m a pathologist. I see a lot of bodies. Victims of crime, I mean.” She stops, flushes pinker still, and shakes her head. “No. It’s very kind of you, but I’m fine.”

Mycroft opens the car door and steps out, opening his umbrella in one smooth move. He raises it over Hooper’s head and moves closer, creating their own private world. 

“I’m sorry,” he purrs. “I should have introduced myself.” He transfers the umbrella to his left hand and holds out his right. “I’m Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s brother.”

“Sherlock’s brother?” Hooper’s eyes have gone wide with surprise, and her mouth curls into a smile as she shakes hands. “My - uh - _the_ Sherlock?”

“The very same,” Mycroft assures her. He looks down at his nails, runs a thumb across them. “And perhaps I should confess that I sought you out deliberately. Sherlock may be in danger, Miss Hooper, and I need your help.”

Mycroft glances up and fancies he sees a little of the colour leave her cheeks. She nods, eagerly. “What do you need?”

“Firstly, I require a simple promise,” he tells her. “That you will tell no-one about this meeting.”

“I promise,” she says, lifting her chin a little, and Mycroft reads determination in the gesture - determination and commitment. There is no need to threaten this little Earthian with the Official Secrets Act: Sherlock’s welfare means more to her than the fear of incarceration ever could.

He smiles. “I need your boss’ home address.”  
 

________________

   
Miss Hooper’s text, conveying the relevant information, arrives just as Mycroft is sitting down at his granite-topped kitchen table with a morning cup of tea. With the Prime Minister conveniently out of the country at an EU summit, Mycroft’s time today is largely his own. He gulps down a couple of mouthfuls of tea, burning his tongue, and leaves the rest. He grabs his coat and umbrella, and walks the short distance to Millbank before flagging down a taxi: calling a cab from home would have made it far too easy for Management to track his movements.

According to Miss Hooper, Stamford lives south of the river in Camberwell but Mycroft decides against giving the cabbie the precise address. Instead, he alights half-way down Denmark Hill and goes the rest of the way on foot - past general stores and pawnbrokers, Chinese takeaways and bookies, out to where there are no shops at all, just private houses. He checks their numbers as he goes but Denmark Hill runs out long before he finds No 563.

It would appear that the address Stamford’s given Hooper doesn’t exist.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock has been on his own all day. John’s been on a funeral date with Helen Stoner. (Henceforth to be known as The One With The Nose.) When John returns, Sherlock’s in the living room, playing a piece of his own composition. It’s brooding and dark, full of sforzando G3 strikes like punches, and spiccato attacks on minor chords that sound like tearing the wings off butterflies. He quickly transitions into something more classical - a graceful piece, jaunty and light. If his bowing still has an angry edge to it, he doubts very much that John will hear it. John can be determinedly tone-deaf when it suits him.

Unsurprisingly, John’s wearing black: a shiny, two-piece suit made from cheap fabric. He’s had it for years. (Outmoded cut, pilling around the cuffs.) Which is good. Sherlock might have had to break something if John had gone so far as to buy a new one. There’s a black tie about John’s neck and his elderly black shoes have been polished to a military grade shine. (His funeral outfit - a miserable assemblage that John looks miserable in.) Sherlock wonders if it’s what John wore when his mother was laid to rest. Wonders, too, what other memories it might hold secret, and bitterly resents it: there’s so much about John he’s been unable to deduce. So much he wants to know. Not that he’s going to let John know that. He carries on playing, eyes fixed on one of the panels in the kitchen door, his expression as clouded as the glass.

“Glad that’s over,” John volunteers, flopping down into his chair.

Mid-glissando, Sherlock pauses, and looks across at him down the length of his instrument.

“You didn’t have to go.”

“Helen asked.” John shrugs, feigning innocence. (And fooling no-one. Jenny’s off the scene and John is lining Stoner up to be his next girlfriend.) (Despite the nose.) “She was sad and she didn’t have anyone else.”

“So you went out of kindness?” Sherlock asks. It’s not so much a question as a steel pin. It fixes John in place and makes him squirm. “How very noble of you. Tell me, Doctor, would you do anything anyone asked of you out of kindness?”

John’s eyes narrow. “It would depend on how they asked.”

“Oh, she asked nicely, did she? Of course she did. She’s nice. You’re nice. How lovely for you both.” Sherlock plays a chord that’s decidedly not nice, followed by another that’s even worse.

John gets to his feet. 

“I don’t know what your problem is,” he says coldly, jaw tight with the effort of controlling his breathing and his tone, “but, right now, I don’t care. It’s been a long day and I don’t need this. I’m going to bed.”

This is not what Sherlock wanted at all, and he plays a spitefully sarcastic lullaby to John’s angry, retreating back.  
 

________________

   
Up in the safety of his room, John has to resist the urge to punch something. He reminds himself sternly of what happened the last time he gave in to the urge. Professor Harrison had been scathing about his sewing skills, not just in front of John’s fellow students and two nurses, but in front of the patient, too. Riled up, John locked himself in the laundry room and let fly at a wall. For a moment the pain was so blinding, he was sure he’d never be able to stitch up anyone ever again. Sherlock's not worth it. He's _proved_ he's not worth it - and right when John was beginning to think there might be an actually human being lurking under that abrasive, arrogant exterior. He feels like an idiot now. Of course Sherlock didn't tell him about being an orphan to make him feel better about his own miserable past: it was because everything always has to be about _him_.

John takes off his jacket and pulls loose his tie. He unlaces his shoes and puts them back in their box, doing his damnedest not to think about the last time he wore them, or when he might need to again. Life is so fragile, so precarious, you have to enjoy it whilst you can. Grab your opportunities with both hands. And stop wasting time yearning for things that can never be.

His phone is warm in his pocket. He takes it out and phones Helen.

“Hi. I hope this isn’t too pushy, or the wrong time or anything, but d’you fancy going out for a drink on Friday? Or the cinema, maybe? Or out for a meal?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, and he fears he’s blown it, telling himself he should have waited at least another week. But then Helen is speaking, and there’s a great, big, delighted smile in her voice. 

“A meal would be lovely,” she says. “Just what I need. Yes. Thank you. Yes. Thank you for asking.”  
 

________________

   
Mycroft has had a frustrating week. He’s made no progress at all on the Mike Stamford front, and every time he thought he might be free to pursue a new avenue, something pressing has cropped up: a looming crisis in Ecuador, skirmishes in Armenia and, most worrying of all, the reappearance in London of Irene Adler - under her new cover as some kind of specialist courtesan. Ordinarily, Mycroft would have no interest in her sordid choice of employment, but when not one, but two, prominent backbenchers become embroiled in sex scandals of her making during the course of a single week, it makes damage control a priority and occupies far too much of Mycroft’s time. Which means he’s in serious need of help.

His problem is that he trusts very few people, Angelic or otherwise. Certainly not Sherlock, now he’s fallen prey to Sentiment. He was bad enough when it was just the lofty ideas about Right, Wrong and morality. No, on Earth, there’s only one person Mycroft can rely on completely, and that’s Gregory Lestrade - which is why he’s currently squeezing himself into drainpipe leather trousers and a fishnet top.

Standing before the mirror in his ultra-traditional blue-toned bedroom, he can scarcely bear to look at his reflection. It takes three attempts before he’s able to assess his appearance with even a modicum of objectivity. ‘Ageing boy whore’ is the term that springs most readily to mind - a term of abuse he’s picked up from one of the government’s more forthright members - and he very nearly decides to drop the plan altogether and spend the rest of the night cowering under his Home Office desk. Before he can, however, there’s on knock on the bedroom door and Anthea sails in. This is all her fault - she’s the one who assembled this ludicrous outfit - and Mycroft gives her a baleful look. To think he was embarrassed when Sherlock made a spectacle of himself in Lycra!

Anthea’s large brown eyes rove shamelessly over his body. 

“Perfect,” she says after long, excruciating seconds. She looks horribly pleased with herself.

“Dear lady,” Mycroft splutters, the unpleasant heat of shame suffusing him. “How can you possibly call this -” He indicates the outfit with shaking, outraged hands. “- ‘perfect’? If the press-”

“They won’t,” she insists. “We’ll sneak you out the back way and, once you’re away from this place, in that outfit, even your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

Mycroft jerks his head up. 

“Why would you say that?” he demands. “My mother is dead.”

He feels vulnerable enough already without people insinuating he and Mummy were Attached. Particularly when they weren’t. If they had been, Mummy would surely never have embarked on her reckless mission to Earth - and she certainly wouldn’t have left him, barely ten years old, to look after Sherlock.

Anthea’s eyes go wide and her mouth opens, some hideous platitude about to trip from her lips, no doubt. Before she can utter it, Mycroft turns his attention briskly back to the mirror.

“But you’re right,” he mutters, wriggling uncomfortably against the snug fight of the trousers around his backside and crotch. “I scarcely recognize myself.”

“You did say you wanted to fit in, sir,” she reminds him.

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft snaps because there’s no point in complaining about trivialities. He has far more important matters on his mind than whether he looks absurd. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”  
   
Anthea’s car is a … Ford of some type? Something small and pedestrian, anyway - not to mention girlishly perky, in an electric shade of blue. Mycroft has never had occasion to ride in a Ford before and, as he folds his long legs into it, leather trousers squeaking unpleasantly over the plastic seats, he vows never to do so again. He’s not sure he likes riding in the passenger seat either: as they zip through the night, following the river then heading north to Hoxton, in this tiny, thin-skinned vehicle, he’s far too close to other road-users to feel entirely safe.

The prospect of entering a night club on his own feels more dangerous still and, peering through the passenger door’s window at The Hoxton Stallion, he yearns for the rock-solid confidence of a burly security man or two at his side.

As he steps out onto the pavement, it’s the sound that hits him first, a thudding wall of music so loud, it’s an almost physical force. Next, it’s the lights - flashing, swirling and acid-bright - followed by the stench of Earthian bodies, all sweat and synthetic perfume. Mycroft hesitates, his half-exposed nipples tightening into peaks in the cool night air. Anthea’s car is still at the kerb; he could get back in and flee …

“First time?” a rich, gravelly voice to his right asks, and Mycroft is astonished to find that a couple of Earthian males, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, have managed to get within two feet of him without his noticing. He feels his lids blink reflexively fast, before managing to compose himself enough to nod.

“You’ll love it,” the taller of the pair says, in the same warm tones. He’s dark-eyed and dark-haired, with a deep rich tan. Southern European - of extraction, at least. “Everyone’s really friendly and up for a laugh. Especially on theme nights.” He pauses to take in Mycroft’s outfit and smiles. “Love the trousers. Don’t you, Beppo?”

“Yeah,” the smaller man - Beppo - enthuses. He’s a neat, narrow-hipped thirty-something who’d put Mycroft in mind of an Italian version of John Watson if he weren’t wearing tartan trousers festooned with buckles and chains. “You’re sure to pull in those.”

Mycroft has no idea of the etiquette demanded in a situation such as this, so he smiles weakly and mumbles, “Thank you”. God be praised, it seems to be enough, and he’s immediately escorted through the grey-pillared entrance into what, as far as Mycroft’s concerned, might as well be the mouth of Hell.  
   
Beppo’s friend’s prediction proves absolutely right: the club’s clientèle _is_ friendly. Very. So much so in fact that, despite plastering himself to a wall and radiating stand-offishness to the _n_ th degree, Mycroft is besieged by strange men offering drinks and suggesting things that make his eyes water. Desperately scanning the thrashing bodies and bobbing heads on the dance floor for some sign of Lestrade’s presence, he politely refuses it all and, mercifully, his would-be suitors melt back into the crowd with no more than a regretful sigh.

But eventually there’s one who refuses to take ‘no’ for an answer and, though Mycroft tries to slip quietly away without a fuss, he finds himself caged by arms so muscled they might as well be thighs. Their owner is a coarsely handsome, bleached blond, his hair sculpted into an large, stiff cockscomb.

“You’re just shy,” the Earthian says, breathing alcohol fumes and slurring his words. “Have a drink and loosen up.”

“I assure you -” Mycroft begins in his best diplomat’s voice, only for his pitch to shoot up an octave when the Earthian’s thick thumb and forefinger suddenly reach out and tweak his left nipple through a hole in his fishnet top. The onslaught of physical response is overwhelming - sensitivity, increased heart-rate, perspiration, accelerated breathing, and a tingle of something unexpected, down low in his belly. Mycroft swallows, a flush rising to his cheeks.

The Earthian smirks at him, so pleased with itself that Mycroft loses his composure. He draws in a breath, summons all the Angelic strength at his disposal and slams a hand into the imbecile’s solar plexus hard.

Nothing happens. The Earthian barely moves. Bewildered, Mycroft blinks - by rights, he should have broken bone, or at least sent the creature flying backwards through the air - and something like self-doubt begins to whisper at the back of his mind. He tries again - to the same effect, and now his doubt shifts closer to fear. He’s alone in this place, unable to control even _one_ of the scores of Earthians surrounding him. As the implications of that sink in, the one immediately in front of him leans in again and applies its hot lips to the side of his throat. A spike of ice-cold panic shoots up Mycroft’s spine and he scrabbles for escape, bending at the knee and ducking down as he tries to slither out of his prison sideways. For a moment, the tactic seems to work, because he manages to put a whole two yards between them, but the Earthian lunges for him again, huge hands snatching at his arm and shoulder, its meaty breath sour in Mycroft’s face.

He closes his eyes. Prays. He’s Heaven’s faithful servant. He doesn’t deserve this …

Out of nowhere, an arm snakes around his waist, tightens and pulls him off to one side. His whole body goes tense and his heart hammers, then someone speaks - someone familiar and blessedly safe.

“Trying to make me jealous, Mike?” Lestrade asks, with a chuckle. “Might have to make you pay for that later.”

Mycroft opens his eyes, a torrent of gratitude welling up in him that threatens to gush forth in a stream of _Ohmygod_ and _Thankyouthankyouthankyou_ , but it stops abruptly at the sight that meets him. Lestrade is dressed in tatty jeans and a torn black t-shirt under a studded leather jacket. His hair has been spiked up into stiff grey bristles and his large, brown eyes smudged with black.

“G-Gregory …” Mycroft stutters, licking his lips.

“Bugger,” the groping Earthian growls. “You two together?”

“Yeah, we are,” Lestrade says, giving Mycroft a not entirely unpleasant squeeze, “so piss off, eh?”

The thwarted Earthian gives Mycroft a last, lingering look, then shuffles off - presumably to importune some other poor unfortunate. Mycroft sags against Lestrade in sheer relief, the warmth and solidity of his body an unexpected comfort. When he pulls himself upright again, Lestrade is looking at him closely, an unvoiced question in his eyes.

Mycroft sighs. “No, Gregory, I do not make a habit of frequenting establishments such as this. I needed to talk to you urgently and was told you were here, working under cover. It was the only way …”

Lestrade grins. “Nice to be so wanted. What can I do for you?”

The music is almost deafening, and no-one’s paying them the slightest interest now they’re so clearly unavailable to third parties, yet Mycroft still looks around before speaking. 

“Mike Stamford,” he says, lowering his voice. “There’s no record of him as a Fallen.”

“Clerical error?” Lestrade suggests, unflappable as ever.

“Possibly,” Mycroft concedes, although he doesn’t believe it for a moment. “Possibly not. I need you to find out. And, if it’s not a mistake, I need you to find out what he is, and who he’s working for.”

“You’ve got better contacts than me. Why not use them?”

“Why d’you think?” Mycroft snaps, impatient at the Fallen’s sluggish wits, although at the look of almost-hurt that fills Lestrade’s smoky eyes, he instantly regret his tone: Lestrade just rescued him, after all. Mycroft tries again. “I don’t know what I’m dealing with, Gregory, and I’m not sure I can trust them.”

Lestrade is quiet for a moment. Thoughtful. “But you trust me …” He tips his head to one side but it’s not a question.

Mycroft smiles wearily. “Yes, Gregory. I believe I do.”  
 

________________

   
John is a considerate flat-mate, but not a overly quiet one, so it’s the near-silence that tips Sherlock off. Something isn’t right. He knows John’s no longer up in his room - he came down an hour ago, despite it being early for a non-work day, and despite having been out late with the One With The Nose _again_ last night - yet Sherlock’s scarcely heard a sound. He jumps out of bed, throws on his dressing gown and goes to investigate.

In the kitchen, there’s evidence of John’s recent presence: a cup, plate and spoon on the draining board, detergent bubbles on them rainbowing in the morning light. Why didn’t Sherlock hear the taps running, or the clatter of crockery and cutlery as John washed up?

The kitchen doors are closed. He slides them aside and finds John retrieving his coat from the table, where he must have tossed it last night. The door to the landing is open and, on catching sight of Sherlock, John’s eyes dart towards it. Sherlock follows John’s gaze. A dark hold-all is has been deposited next to the bannister, fat and full. Sherlock looks at it pointedly for a moment, then turns his head again and looks just as pointedly at John.

“Going somewhere?” His voice comes out low and dark and dangerous. He’s rather pleased.

John smiles one of his flickering on-off smiles - the sort that mean Yes or Sorry - though usually both. “Just for the night.” The words seem to give him courage and, pulling his coat on like body armour, he stands taller. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”

“And if there’s a case?” Sherlock prowls a step nearer, just to see the look on John’s face. He knows John’s leaving, that he’s hoping that tonight will finally be the night he gets to have sex, but when John looks up at him like that - lips parted, pupils huge and dark - the pain of it subsides a little. John wants him. He may not be ready to break yet, nor to leave his silly Earthian morality behind him, but he’s close. So very, very close.

“You’ve got my number,” John says, with another on-off smile, although this one’s a little disappointed, and a tiny bit defiant. “If you need me.”

“I won’t.”

John’s jaw clenches. 

“No,” he says, pushing past. “Of course you won’t.”  
 

________________

   
John wakes up in the night, ravenous; his stomach actually growling. He stirs, wondering blearily about sneaking downstairs to snatch something from the kitchen until the vision of a severed human head looms in his mind. There’s never anything edible in the fridge and certainly nothing worth getting out of bed for. He rolls onto his side, trying to get more comfortable. As he tugs the duvet tighter around him, he’s suddenly aware of the weight and warmth of another body. His heart stops. Did he finally give into temptation? Did he crack and take Sherlock to bed with him? He prises his eyes open, hardly daring to breathe.

It’s dark. Actually, properly dark - not London-dark where it’s all orange-grey haze and the occasional flashing blue light. _Oh_. This isn’t Baker Street. It’s the York House Hotel in Bexhill-on-Sea. And that’s not Sherlock’s head on the pillow next to him, it’s Helen’s.

John’s stomach rumbles again. He slides out of bed as carefully as he can, and polishes off both packets of the complimentary shortbread that came with the tea tray. Even after he’s finished, his hunger’s still there and the biscuits have left an inexplicably bitter taste in his mouth.  
 

________________

   
Mycroft can’t help grimacing at the tacky carpet underfoot as he squeezes his way down the row, muttering apologies at the Earthians who rise from their seats to let him pass, but it’s been a week and he’s eager to hear what Lestrade’s uncovered. The Fallen is at the far end of the row, an immense bucket of popcorn on his lap.

“Really, Gregory,” Mycroft chides, as he takes the seat beside him. “A cinema?”

“You said you wanted somewhere less challenging this time. Besides, this is sci-fi. Right up your street. You’ll love it.” Lestrade grins, and shoves a leaflet into Mycroft’s hand. “Worth the price of admission for Marion Cotillard alone. Not to mention Tom Hardy.”

Mycroft sniffs. He doesn’t recognize the names, but one’s clearly female and the other male. He couldn’t say which he dislikes hearing falling from Lestrade’s lips with such obvious admiration more. 

“May I remind you-” he begins, only to be shushed by a matronly woman in the row in front. He drops his voice, glaring daggers at the back of her head. “May I remind you that I am not here to enjoy myself. I am here because you said you had information for me.”

Lestrade stuffs an unfeasible amount of popcorn into his mouth and chews. 

“I have,” he says, none too clearly.

“And ..?”

“Everything’s fine. Clerical error, like I said. Well, sort of.” Another handful of popcorn goes in, and there’s more chewing. “Stamford’s not a Fallen. He’s an Angel.”

Mycroft’s world skids to a halt. He’s sure he must have turned horribly pale, but Lestrade doesn’t appear to notice.

Instead, he pats - actually _pats_ \- Mycroft’s knee, and says cheerfully, “Looks like you’ve been worrying for nothing. Mike Stamford’s one of us. Working for Heaven. So you can just sit back and enjoy yourself - and Marion and Tom - after all.”

According to Lestrade’s leaflet, Inception has a running time of one hundred and forty-eight minutes. As Mycroft stares at the half-drowned character washed up on a foreign shore with more than a little sympathy, he hopes that that will be enough time for him to come up with a plan.  
 

________________

   
Allowing John to keep seeing Helen Stoner was supposed to have made him more accommodating and less tetchy - Sherlock’s sure he’s read somewhere that regular sex releases mood-improving hormones into the bloodstream - and yet, despite having spent four of the past eight nights away from Baker Street, John’s mood has improved not one jot. It’s got worse. He snaps at the slightest provocation and rarely smiles. It’s as if their friendship has ceased to exist, and Sherlock’s sure John only agreed to accompany him to today’s crime scene because - to use Donovan’s tasteless expression - John gets off on danger.

The location is a patch of waste ground in Southwark - flat and dusty, littered with weeds, over which two immense crane rigs loom like elderly vultures. Lestrade is striding out purposefully, a plastic evidence bag conspicuous in his hand. Sherlock follows, with John close behind as usual. From the outside, an idiot would probably think all is right with the world.

“There was a plane crash in Duësseldorf yesterday,” Lestrade says, displaying his woeful talent for stating the obvious. “Everyone dead.”

“Suspected terrorist bomb,” Sherlock says. “We do watch the news.”

“You said ‘Boring’, and turned over,” John reminds him. (There! He’s definitely peeved about something!) 

Sherlock decides to let it go: this is a crime scene - the place where he shines. He’ll let Lestrade flounder for a bit then rattle off his deductions. John will be breathless with admiration again and perhaps it’ll get them back to normal.

In front of them stands a silver-grey saloon car, the boot open. (Cars are easy. So much evidence, all in one handy container.) Sherlock feels his spirits lift.

“Well, according to the flight details,” Lestrade explains, shuffling through the contents of his plastic bag, and indicating the body in the boot with a tilt of his head, “this man was checked in onboard. Inside his coat, he’s got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here’s his passport, stamped in Berlin Airport. So, this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday, but instead, he’s in a car boot in Southwark.”

“Lucky escape,” John comments drily.

Sherlock crouches down to examine the body.

“Any ideas?” Lestrade asks.

With John watching and listening, Sherlock finds the urge to show off irresistible. 

“Eight, so far,” he says briskly.

(One: it’s one of Lestrade’s colleague’s idea of a joke. Two: Donovan’s trying to make Lestrade look incompetent because she resents how often he calls me in. Three: she’s trying to make _me_ look incompetent. Four: the documentation has been falsified.) (No, none of those explanations work: Lestrade’s colleagues may be stupid, but they’re not that stupid - not even Donovan - and Lestrade will have run checks.)

“Okay, four ideas,” Sherlock amends. 

(Five: the body and the documentation aren’t related. Six: someone is trying to fake their own death …)

Sherlock is reaching for the passport in Lestrade’s hand, when it suddenly hits him. The corpse is lying face down, its right hand resting on the rim of the boot, the left folded under the body, out of sight. Sherlock has been so focused on John that he saw but he didn’t observe. There are no callouses on the dead man’s right hand, no thickening of the skin on the middle finger where a writing implement might have rubbed … He catches his breath: the body in the boot is that of a Nephilim. Which means either Moriarty’s picked up his mission where he left it off, _or_ this is a warning about John.

“Maybe two ideas,” Sherlock says grimly.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock is in the kitchen, doing something dangerous with a blow torch to some sort of green liquid in a conical flask. John hasn’t asked why, or what, because Sherlock’s been so wound up since the body in the car in Southwark yesterday, that one wrong word and John couldn’t predict which is more likely to explode - Sherlock or his experiment. As a result, he’s had to abandon all hope of breakfast and take refuge in the living room, distracting himself from the lack of a decent meal by updating his blog.

All of a sudden the kitchen door opens and John hears the whooshing roar of a flame. Sherlock strides up to him and looms over his shoulder, even weirder looking than usual in plastic goggles, a drab grey lab coat and huge yellow heat-proof gloves. He peers down at John’s screen and gives a low growl.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, gesturing with his flask. “Don’t mention the unsolved ones.”

John stops typing and looks up. “People want to know you’re human,” he explains.

Sherlock looks positively insulted. “Why?”

“Because they’re interested,” John tells him, resuming typing. For a genius, sometimes Sherlock’s indescribably dim.

Sherlock dismisses the notion with a snapped - “No, they’re not.” - only to immediately reconsider. “ _Why_ are they?”

John grins. The number of hits the site is getting is all the vindication his choice of blog entries needs. 

“Look at that,” he says. “One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five. I reset that counter last night. This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours.” 

Sherlock has removed his goggles and he’s standing taller - defensive moves, both. John supposes he should be grateful that, at some point, the blow lamp got switched off. 

“This is your living, Sherlock,” he says, “not two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash.”

“Two hundred and forty- _three_ ,” Sherlock mutters, and his blow-lamp roars back into life.  
 

________________

   
The ridiculous case of the belly button murders - or ‘The Navel Treatment’ as John insists on calling it - took Sherlock less than ten hours to solve: the poison was introduced into the victims’ bodies via navel piercings at the local tattoo parlour. Now, with John away at a medical conference somewhere (a European capital city? Probably Dublin, given John’s interest in cardiovascular medicine), Sherlock finds himself at a loose end. After trying (unsuccessfully) to interest himself in celebrity websites, he decides to take a cab to New Scotland Yard instead: either Lestrade will find him something interesting to do, or he can spend an enjoyable hour or so tormenting Donovan and pointing out how pathetic Anderson still is at forensics. However, as he steps off the pavement to hail a taxi, a black Jaguar XJ swoops in in front of it, and the back passenger door opens. Sherlock gets in, scowling.

“What do _you_ want?”

Mycroft leans forward and slides the sound-proof window behind his driver’s head shut. 

“I have news for you. About Stamford.”

“Well, spit it out, then,” Sherlock snaps, irritated at Mycroft’s overly dramatic performance. “I’m busy.”

Mycroft locks eyes with him. “He’s an Angel.”

Sherlock blinks. That, he’ll admit, was worthy of a bit of drama. “Are you sure?”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything. Just rolls his eyes and sighs.

“All right - you’re sure. What are you going to do about it? What are we going to do about it? Do we need to do anything about it? Why would we do anything about it? If he’s an Angel-”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft tuts. “You’re missing the obvious.”

“What?”

“He didn’t tell us. No-one told us. They let us assume.” Mycroft raises an expectant, encouraging brow. “Which means ..?”

Sherlock presses his hands together against his chin. “It means Management have deliberately misled us.”

“Which means ..?”

“They don’t trust us.”

Tipping back his head, Mycroft laughs. “Of course they don’t trust us! They don’t trust anyone. Try again, brother dear.”

Sherlock turns his head to look at him. “It means we can’t trust them.”

“Bravo.” Mycroft nods. “Knew you’d get there in the end. So, it would appear we’re in danger not simply from Moriarty but from all sides.”

“Not from John,” Sherlock insists, staunchly.

Mycroft smiles sadly. 

“Not from him, no - but very probably because of him. I’ll deal with it, Sherlock, but if we’re to get through whatever this is without ruining our prospects - or worse - we need to be careful. Very careful. It is therefore my decision that you should leave the flat as little as possible, and then only when absolutely necessary. Do you understand?”

“Lock myself up? Why should I?”

“Because I can hardly order John to stay inside, can I? If I know you’re safe, I can devote all my resources to taking care of him.”  
 

________________

   
The Prime Minister has a saying he employs when resorting to underhand ways of dealing with his ministerial colleagues (or when he’s nibbling away at the edges of the constitution). As Mycroft settles himself on a bench under a fig tree overlooking the lake in St James Park, he finds himself forced to agree: Needs must when the Devil drives. He takes out a cheap, throw-away phone from one pocket and a web-page printout from the other. The pulse in his throat flutters unpleasantly as he thumbs the website’s number into the phone.

“Good afternoon,” a female voice answers, after a couple of rings. “You’re through to The Woman. If you’re a returning client, press One. If you’re new to this, press Two.”

Mycroft swallows and presses Two.

“Welcome to The Whip Hand,” a new voice answers. “You will shortly hear a list of our services. Please listen to all the options before making your selection. Alternately, you may press Hash followed by Star to be put through to an operator. For bondage, press-”

Mycroft hastily presses the Hash and Star keys.

“Hello,” a third voice purrs, a hint of amusement in its tone. “Have you been wicked?”

To Mycroft’s surprise, it’s Adler herself. He recognizes the voice, although its brazen seductiveness throws him for a moment. He clears his throat. “Miss Adler, this is-”

“Mycroft Holmes,” she finishes for him. “How lovely. Have you rethought my offer?”

“Wilkes is dead,” Mycroft announces, cutting straight to the chase. “Though I imagine you knew that.”

“I may have heard something to that effect. Nothing to do with me. As I said-”

“You only kill with kindness. I sincerely hope that’s true.”

“I’m an Angel, Mr Holmes. I may bend the rules, but I’m not stupid enough to break them.”

“And yet Management recently issued a second warrant for your arrest.”

“Oh,” Adler replies, drawing the word out. “So _that’s_ what this is about. Blackmail.”

“Not at all, dear lady. It’s an offer. I’d like you to gather some information for me - in return for a meaningful sum, naturally.”

“ _Naturally_. What kind of information?”

“I want to know what Mike Stamford’s doing here.”

“Mike … Stamford ..?” Adler repeats the name slowly, then laughs. “No. Sorry. Never heard of him. Should I have?”

“He works at Bart’s hospital. In the pathology laboratory.”

“He sounds dull.”

“Yes. He also looks dull. Which is what’s so very clever about it.”

“Clever?”

“He may have the outward appearance of a particularly unhealthy Earthian, Miss Adler, and the servile manner of the most desperate of Fallens, but he’s neither.” Mycroft pauses for effect. “He’s an Angel.”

“Ooh!” Adler gives a throaty chuckle. “Well, I do like a challenge, Mr Holmes - and this sounds like fun.”

“You’ll do it?”

“It will be my pleasure.”

Mycroft’s rather taken aback. He’d expected this to be much more difficult. “Then, shall we agree terms?”

There’s a moment’s silence, then another chuckle. 

“Oh, I don’t think so, do you? Not yet, anyway. In fact, it’s rather naughty of you to expect me to set a price before I know what the information is worth. When I do, I promise you, Mr Holmes, you’ll pay.”  
 

________________

   
Ordinarily, hearing the doorbell chime wouldn’t alarm Mycroft: postmen ring, odd little men in uniforms wanting to read meters, Boy Scouts … All of them perfectly innocuous. However, the last few days have been interminable and, with Moriarty on the loose, Stamford being unfathomable and Irene Adler ‘helping out’, the slightest variance from the usual routine has him jumping like a scalded cat. He makes his way downstairs slowly, hoping whoever it is will simply go away. The bell rings again. He peers through the spy-hole - and sees the back of a familiar grey head. He opens the door.

“Thought you might like half a bag of fish and chips,” Lestrade grins, displaying a steaming and grease-stained, off-white paper package.

“Why?” Mycroft asks, standing aside to let him in. “Is it Friday?”

“Thursday. Pay day. It’s traditional,” Lestrade explains. He looks around the hallway and gives a low whistle. “Might have resisted the wife’s charms if Management had put me in a place like this,” he says ruefully.

“The wages of sin …”

“Yeah. Come on, then. Get us a beer.”

Mycroft leads the way to the kitchen and opens the fridge door: he’s fairly sure there were a few bottles lurking at the back of it when he first moved in. They’re still there. He takes out two and flips the tops off against the granite work surface before passing one to Lestrade.

“Am I to understand this is purely a social call?” he asks, frowning in distaste as the Fallen unleashes a landslide of greasy vegetable sticks onto a bone china plate and splits the battered fish in half with his hands.

Lestrade hands the plate over. “Would you like it to be?”

With a jolt of surprise, Mycroft realizes he wouldn’t object but what comes out of his mouth is,“I’d prefer your visit to have some kind of purpose,” because admitting it would never do.

Lestrade stuffs a couple of chips into his mouth with his fingers and chews. 

“You’re in luck, then,” he says, around swallowing. “That woman you wanted me to keep tabs on - The Woman - she’s in all today’s papers.”

Mycroft has a moment of panic. He doesn’t like it. A swig from the neck of his beer bottle does little to help. He swallows, grimacing. “Why?”

“Sex scandal. I don’t suppose you’ve ever read anything by Geordie McVey? Fantasy writer.”

Mycroft shakes his head.

“Him and his wife are getting divorced, both of them accusing the other of adultery. The funny thing is, they’re both citing Irene Adler as co-respondent.”

Ah. So this is a social, call after all. It’s only dressed up as business. Mycroft relaxes a little, and looks at Lestrade from under lowered brows, feigning reproof.

“I think you’re confusing me with my brother. I have no interest in gossip.”

Lestrade takes a long and unapologetic drink of his beer. 

“You’ll be interested in this,” he says, with utter certainty, and reaches into his pocket. “The paparazzi got this picture of her yesterday. See who’s with her?”

Mycroft takes the ripped bit of newsprint Lestrade hands him. It carries a grainy photograph of Irene Adler with Stamford.  
 

________________

   
Initially, Sherlock’s decision to forego clothing for the duration of his Mycroft-imposed incarceration in 221B served two purposes: firstly, it’s practical - why bother getting dressed if you’re not going anywhere? - and, secondly, it offends Mycroft’s sense of propriety. _For God’s sake, put some clothes on_ has been his constant refrain for days. However, now that John’s back from his week in Ireland, the near-nakedness is achieving something far more worthwhile: it makes John delightfully hot under the collar and twitchy with what Sherlock is almost sure is lust.

He grins to himself as John enters the living room and once again does a double-take, nearly tripping over his own feet as he tries to look anywhere other than in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock would never have guessed going without clothes would have this effect. In fact, he was afraid it might make him look unattractively vulnerable, when what appeals to John is authority and command, but no: wandering about the flat in a sheet has rendered John more nervous than Sherlock’s ever seen him.

“You, uh, called?” John says, still averting his eyes.

“We have a client,” Sherlock replies, pointing to the enormous Earthian perched on the dining room chair they always use for interviews, blobs of his vast buttocks spilling out through the chair’s open back.

John pulls himself quickly together and pastes on a mask of detached professionalism as he goes over to take a seat on the sofa.

“Tell us from the start,” Sherlock instructs the Earthian. “ _Don’t_ be boring.”  
 

________________

   
It’s a bloody relief to be out of the flat - even if it does involve acting as Sherlock’s errand boy: the few hours John has spent in 221B since coming back from Dublin have been the hardest of his life. Literally. Because if Sherlock’s heart-stoppingly gorgeous fully clothed, he’s sodding lethal half-naked. Not that the bastard intends letting John forget that even now, it seems, because even in a field in the middle of bloody nowhere, they’re teleconferencing, complete with visuals.

“You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating,” John says through clenched teeth, as he trudges along behind Detective Inspector Carter to the spot where, according to their client, the hiker he’s accused of killing was alive one moment, and dead the next.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock replies, with a careless yawn. “I’m fine. Now, show me the stream.”

John clenches his teeth tighter. He can see far too much naked skin. “I didn’t really mean for you.”

“Look,” Sherlock says in what, for him, is a wheedling tone of voice, “this is a six. There’s no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass.”

“When did we agree that?” John asks, but he points his laptop camera towards the patch of grass near the stream where the hiker fell anyway.

“We agreed it yesterday. Stop! Closer.”

“I wasn’t even at home yesterday. I was in Dublin.”

With anyone else, a point like that would have won John the debate. With Sherlock, it’s water off a duck’s back.

“Well, it’s hardly my fault you weren’t listening,” he says airily - then his mood changes abruptly. “SHUT UP!” 

John realizes that the faint buzzing he heard earlier wasn’t a nearby insect, but someone ringing the bell in Baker Street.

“D’you just carry on talking when I’m away?” John asks, vaguely insulted.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, and John can hear him shrugging in the tone of his voice. “How often are you away? Now, show me the car that backfired.”

John straightens up again, with a little sigh of disappointment. It’s hard when your whole world revolves around someone who doesn’t even notice when you’re not there, but he turns around obediently, so that his camera picks up the elderly grey-green Saab. “It’s there.”

“That’s the one that made the noise, yes?”

“Yeah,” John confirms. “And if you’re thinking ‘gunshot’, there wasn’t one. He wasn’t shot. He was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer. That’s got to be an eight, at least.”

It’s at this moment that D.I. Carter - who’s probably fed up by now - decides to interrupt.

“You’re got two more minutes,” he says gruffly, like a man throwing down the gauntlet. “Then I want to know more about the driver.”

“Oh, forget him,” John hears Sherlock say. “He’s an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?”

“ _I_ think he’s a suspect!” Carter cries, affronted.

“Pass me over,” Sherlock demands, his voice slow and deliberate with irritation.

There’s going to be a show-down soon, John can feel it. A pointless row because Sherlock can’t be bothered being polite.

“All right,” he agrees, “but there’s a Mute button and I will use it.”

There follows a brief debate about the character of their client, Carter accusing the man of murder and Sherlock ‘defending’ him through the novel expedient of character assassination. The character portrait he sets forth - that of a morbidly obese, foul-breathed, half-witted wanker - makes John squirm.

“Go to the stream,” Sherlock orders, when he’s done.

Carter frowns. “What’s in the stream?”

Sherlock’s answer is a smirk-rich “Go and see” but instead of telling him to piss off, Carter decides to do just that. He pushes the laptop back into John’s hands as he passes. Sherlock’s in profile on the screen now, his head turned towards the door onto the stairs, some kind of commotion going on in the background. John thinks he hears Mrs Hudson, then a stranger ordering someone else to fetch Sherlock some clothes. The last thing John hears, before a large hand looms into view and the connection fails, is Sherlock demanding, “Who the hell are you?”

Suddenly being away from the flat seems a very bad place to be. Urgently, John hits a couple of keys, then another couple, trying to resurrect the connection, but it’s no good. He needs to go home. Now.

But as he turns back to the car, D.I. Carter’s young constable with the improbable hairstyle and large, eager eyes call his name.

“Doctor Watson! It’s for you.”

He’s on the phone so, naturally, John reaches out to take it.

“Uh, no sir,” the constable smiles, and suddenly John can hear the sweeping whirr of rotor blades overhead. “The helicopter.”  
 

________________

   
Mycroft knew this experience would be an excruciating one: hauling Sherlock anywhere against his will was bound to lead to obstreperousness. However, the alternative - allowing him any say in the matter - would simply have resulted in an outright refusal to help. Bringing Watson here too has eased the ordeal a little - the Nephilim’s patriotic respect for the nation’s figurehead has reined in Sherlock’s impulse for excess somewhat, but even so, Mycroft has had to endure the humiliation of his own brother parading around Buckingham Palace _in front of an Authority_ in nothing more than a bed-sheet - and, very nearly, not even that. Harry Damery has taken the whole thing in his unflappable stride but then again, he has weightier problems on his mind. A young female royal employing the services of a dominatrix is no laughing matter - whatever Sherlock may think - even if, for Mycroft, the situation represents (no pun intended) a bit of a godsend. Adler will be unable to extract payment for the information she’s gleaned on Stamford once she finds herself detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. _If_ , that is, Sherlock can be persuaded to cooperate. But persuade Sherlock, Mycroft must. Management are very keen indeed to prevent her broadcasting the data on her phone.

“Can you help us, Mr Holmes?” Damery is asking, almost pleading.

Sherlock looks at the Authority as if he were a complete idiot. “How?”

“Will you take the case?”

Sherlock twists around on the exquisite gold brocade sofa he and Watson occupy to reach for his coat. 

“What case? Pay her. Now. And in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead - ‘Know when you are beaten’.”

Mycroft feels obliged to step in. 

“She doesn’t want anything,” he says.

A slight frown creases Sherlock’s brow and his focus sharpens. 

“She got in touch,” Mycroft continues. “She informed us that the photographs existed. She indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour.”

Sherlock’s gaze slides off to one side, eyes sparkling as his lips curve into a smile. 

“Oh, a power play,” he breathes, impressed. “A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that _is_ a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn’t it?”

At his side, John looks disapproving. “Sherlock,” he warns in a low tone, but Sherlock ignores him. He lifts his coat from the back of the settee and rises to his feet.

“Where is she?”

“Uh, in London, currently,” Mycroft stutters, caught off-balance by Sherlock’s sudden interest in the case. He reaches into his inside pocket for the address. “She’s staying-”

Sherlock cuts him off. “Text me the details,” he says, striding off. “I’ll be in touch by the end of the day.”

Mycroft stands. Watson and Damery do likewise.

“Do you really think you’ll have news by then?” Damery asks.

Sherlock gives him a pitying look. “No - I think I’ll have the photographs.”

“One can only hope you’re as good as you seem to think,” Damery replies, unconvinced.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and sweep over him. Having seen this kind of performance before, Mycroft braces himself for what’s bound to come next.

“I’ll need some equipment, of course,” Sherlock says.

“Anything you require,” Mycroft interjects hastily. Humiliating an angel of Damery’s rank is unwise, and Sherlock has more than enough enemies already. “I’ll have it sent to-”

Sherlock ignores him. 

“Can I have a box of matches?” he asks Damery, holding out a hand. “Or your cigarette lighter. Either will do.”

Damery shakes his head. “I don’t smoke.”

“No, I know _you_ don’t,” Sherlock says, radiating smugness. “But your employer does.”

Damery hesitates, but Sherlock doesn’t move and, at last, he reaches into his pocket and extracts a lighter.

“We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes,” he says sternly.

“I’m not the Commonwealth,” Sherlock returns, uncowed.

Mycroft holds his tongue: Sherlock has agreed to help, and Adler may be apprehended before she can use what she knows about Stamford against either of them. For this, Mycroft is prepared to let disrespecting an Authority pass.

Watson, however, is not. 

“And that’s as modest as he gets,” he tells Damery, with a wry look. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Sherlock’s parting shot is a poorly enunciated ‘Laters!’

“Tell me we’ve done the right thing,” Damery says, after he’s gone.

“We’ve done the right thing,” Mycroft insists. “My little brother is reprehensible in many ways but, if anyone can bring Adler to heel, I promise you, it’s him.”  
 

________________

   
Things have gone badly wrong, and Sherlock stands rooted to the spot, horrified by his own stupidity. He should have seen it at once - what Adler is. He should have deduced the kind of enemies she’d have made. If he’d been less troubled by John trying to flirt with her, her drawing room alone (pale, uncluttered, without a single humanizing detail) would have given it away.

But if he didn’t see it then, he certainly should have the moment she appeared. No Earthian female could have a body that perfect; no Earthian female reveal so little whilst exposing so much. Adler is an angel - a rogue angel like Moriarty - which is why it’s come to this …

John is on his knees on the floor, the muzzle of a pistol indenting the soft flesh at the back of his neck. Sherlock watches, terrified, as the American’s henchman pushes John’s head down and cocks the gun. He can scarcely breathe. (They’re going to shoot John.) (They’re going to shoot John.) (They’regoingtoshootJohn) For months, Sherlock’s been telling himself, if he waited, they might have forever together; now, it seems they may have no time at all.

“One,” the American says, starting his fatal countdown.

John cowers, and Sherlock brain empties of everything except dread. 

“I don’t know the code,” he says, his voice breaking on the words.

“Two.”

Sherlock’s heart, already hammering, beats harder still. 

“She didn’t tell me,” he insists, fear making him yell. “I don’t know it!”

The American’s lip curls up in a sneer. “I’m prepared to believe you any minute now … Three.”

Sherlock’s heart leaps into his throat. Almost clogs it. 

“No!” he chokes out. “Stop!” 

(If they murder John …) Shaking, he turns back to the wall-safe.

Did Adler tell him the code? If she did, he didn’t notice. His blood was still singing from that brawl in the street - the closest physical contact he’s had with John for months. Frantically, he replays their conversation in his head but the effort yields nothing. The room holds no clues either. It’s as blankly perfect as its owner.

( _Oh_. It’s all one. The room, the body, the code.)

Sherlock takes a step closer to the safe and reaches a finger towards the keypad, holding his breath: John’s life depends on him getting this right.

_3.2.2.4.3.4._

There’s a beep and, as the lock clicks open, Sherlock has to close his eyes against the intensity of his relief.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” the American says, triumph making his harsh accent harsher still. “Open it, please.”

The safe door has a rotary switch. Sherlock twists it. He expects Adler to protest, to start bargaining or pleading - but she doesn’t. She remains absolutely silent. Something is wrong …

“Vatican cameos,” Sherlock cries in desperation.

It’s the most unlikely phrase he can come up with. Surely John will realize … He hears John’s body hit the floor. (Thank God! He understood. He’s safe.) Sherlock ducks rapidly down and twists out of range before a trip-wired Glock pistol swings out from the safe. A single shot explodes from the barrel and the henchman holding John hostage goes down, much to Sherlock’s very _un_ -Angelic satisfaction. He straightens up fast, wrenches the American’s pistol from his hand and smashes the butt into his face. A few feet away, Adler has wrestled the gun from the second henchman and is holding it levelled at his head. At Sherlock’s signal, she cracks him across the face with it. Sherlock takes advantage of her distraction to snatch her phone from inside the open safe.

John is kneeling beside the wounded Earthian, examining him, trying to help, the Angelic side of his nature overriding everything else. It’s too late, of course, but Sherlock’s heart swells with pride in him just the same.

“He’s dead,” John says, his voice raw.

Adler ignores him: she doesn’t know what John is. Like everyone else, she’s seen him but has failed to observe. Which means that instead of bestowing her attention on the person who actually deserves it, she casts a sly smile at Sherlock instead.

“Thank you,” she purrs, pleased with herself. “You were very observant. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock’s reply is curt: he’s annoyed by what she’s implying. He has no interest in her. No interest in anyone but John; and his priority is to protect him. 

“There’ll be more of them,” he warns, heading for the front door. “They’ll be keeping an eye on the building.”

“We should call the police,” John suggests, following.

They could, but there’s no guarantee they’ll arrive in time if Sherlock has to go through Earthian switchboards and explanations. He walks out into the street and fires the gun he took from the American into the air. From somewhere nearby comes the gratifying sound of tyres squealing: a car rapidly changing course. “On their way.”

“For God’s sake,” John grumbles.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock grins, heading back indoors. “It’s quick.”

He’s looking forward to this bit. The bit where he makes Adler admit he’s outwitted her - and him just a lowly, no-rank Angel, and her a supposedly talented Dominion. Eager to prevent John overhearing if Adler decides to try pulling rank, Sherlock quickly tasks him with checking the rest of the house, leaving him alone with Adler and very much able to savour his triumph. He takes her phone from his pocket and tosses it into the air.

“Well, that’s the knighthood in the bag.”

Adler’s demeanour instantly alters. The smiles, the flirtatious glances - all gone. Instead, her eyes turn hard and she holds out her hand. 

“That’s mine.”

Sherlock ignores her. She changes tack. Talks a lot of nonsense about having copies of the photos, about them not being for sale. However, when she claims the pictures are for her protection, Sherlock can tell there’s a grain of truth in her words. He’s tempted to probe deeper, but hears John calling for him and there’s no contest. He turns towards the sound of John’s voice and goes to find him.

John is upstairs, in a bedroom. There’s an Earthian female - the one who let them in earlier - unconscious, on the floor. John’s forehead is creased with concern.

“Must have come in this way,” he says, indicating the open en suite bathroom door, and Sherlock’s mind takes him back to the last time the two of them were in a bedroom together, to the delicious moment when John was steeling himself to strip naked … Sherlock swallows. They’re in too much danger to indulge in fantasies.

“Clearly,” he says. It comes out more harshly than he’d intended.

Adler’s heels sound on the wooden floor but Sherlock’s too busy scanning the street below from the bathroom window to bother looking at her. He hears John offer reassuring words -

“It’s all right. She’s just out cold.”

\- and Adler’s offhand reply.

“Well, God knows, she’s used to that. There’s a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson.”

John hurries away to do as she asks. Not for Adler’s sake, Sherlock knows, but for his, and his skin flushes warm at the thought.

In stark contrast to John’s altruism, Adler has gone over to her dressing table. God knows, Sherlock’s never cared about others but her total indifference to the woman on the floor, to the dead man downstairs, is shocking.

“You’re very calm,” he says. Accuses.

Adler gives him a blank, uncomprehending look.

“Well, your booby-trap did just kill a man,” Sherlock clarifies. (Angels don’t kill. She ought to be feeling remorse.) (Or professional embarrassment, at the very least.)

“He would have killed me,” Adler says coolly, walking closer. (Too close.) “It was self-defence in advance.” Her hand is on his arm now, stroking; her voice lilting and soft.

Sherlock’s skin crawls. He’s about to push her off when suddenly there’s pain and, hot on the heels of the pain, dizziness and blurred vision. His sense of balance falters and his stomach churns.

He gasps. “What? What is that? What-”

Adler catches the side of his face with an open-palmed slap - a blow that, ordinarily he’d have withstood with ease. Or, at least, he thinks he would have. It’s getting hard to be sure of anything - including his ability to stand. He starts to sway, his legs fold and the next thing he knows, he’s on the floor, with Adler standing over him.

“Give it to me,” she orders. “Now. Give it to me.”

He blinks. Tries to clear his vision. It doesn’t work. 

“No,” he grunts, and the effort of even that one word is exhausting.

“Give it to me,” Adler says again.

“No.”

Adler’s eyes narrow. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she huffs, and reaches for something on top of the dressing table. “Drop it.” 

Something whistles through the air to land on Sherlock’s upper arm with a streak of fire.

He wills his grip on the phone tighter, but he can feel his strength draining away. He struggles to get back to his feet but another red-hot line of pain sears his arm, then another, and he can’t fight any more. He falls onto his back, and the phone skitters away.

There’s a dark shape looming above him. (Dark coat, dark hair, dark words.) He can’t make them out. He tries to move but a weight on his chest keeps him pinned.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” a female voice croons from far, far away. “It’s been a pleasure. Don’t spoil it.”

Something touches his face. It smells of leather.

“This is how I want you to remember me,” the voice continues. “The woman who beat you.”

For a moment, Sherlock thinks he recognizes the face looking down at him, but then it loses its shape again, becomes a blur of blue and black and white. Sherlock thinks he hears someone wish him goodnight.

He closes his eyes. It would be so good to sleep …  
 

________________

   
Greg helps John manhandle Sherlock into bed. Sherlock’s heavily drugged, but not unconscious - not yet, although he soon will be: all the signs are there. But for now, he’s fighting, flailing, and jerking away from the hands trying to help him, talking nonsense about angels and devils, about Earthians and Heaven.

“Best place for him,” Greg says, when John finally manages to pull a sheet up over Sherlock and Sherlock nuzzles his face into the pillow with the beginnings of a snore. “Easier for you to manage, too.”

“Nothing about Sherlock is easy to manage,” John sighs.

Greg laughs. “He’ll be all right, though?”

John nods: he’s checked. Sherlock pulse rate is fine, his chest clear.

They smile at each other and Greg claps John on the shoulder.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says. “Better get back to the office. Donovan’s got a bee in her bonnet about some student demo in Brixton and if I’m not there to supervise, her and Anderson will do something stupid like waking up the Chief Super.”

John shows Greg out and puts the kettle on. Then he thinks better of it and pours himself a whisky instead. He had tea at the palace, after all. Not that anybody cared. Sherlock could barely bloody talk when That Woman said she liked detectives, and the way he was staring at her … John knows he shouldn’t be surprised. He did a fair bit of staring himself, and - weird though he is - Sherlock’s still a bloke. Put a completely naked - and, yes, okay, beautiful - woman in front of him and his blood supply is inevitably going to decide it has better things to do than fuel his brain. It’s just that John thought … Because he’s never seen Sherlock with a woman … In fact, the only glimpse he’s ever got of what Sherlock might be into was that kiss. Their kiss. John touches a finger to his lips, remembering.

It takes him a moment to realize that’s Sherlock really _is_ calling for him; that it’s not just part of the fantasy he’s spinning. He hurries down the short hallway and opens Sherlock’s door to find him sprawled at his feet, trying, unsuccessfully, to get himself upright.

John deliberately doesn’t help. Sherlock got himself into this mess. If he’s clever enough to work out a safe code by accurately assessing some woman’s measurements, John’s sure he can figure out which foot to put in front of the other.

Sherlock swivels round. “How did I get here?” 

His eyes still aren’t focusing properly. That’s what happen when you stare at naked women for too long, John thinks, seized by a decidedly unprofessional desire to punish him.

“Well, I don’t suppose you remember much,” he says coolly. “You weren’t making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone.”

Sherlock clambers to his feet, eyes wide and panting. “Where is she?”

“Where’s who?” John asks, deliberately obtuse. He knows perfectly well.

“The woman,” Sherlock says, swaying from side to side as he tries to find his balance. “That woman.”

“What woman?”

“The woman!” Sherlock cries, and now he’s like Bambi - all long slender limbs out of his control - and John would take pity on him if he weren’t so … well, _hurt_. He watches impassively as Sherlock staggers first one way, then the other, before lunging towards to window to peer out into the night. “The Woman woman!”

“What, Irene Adler?” John asks, as if he barely even remembers her. “She got away. No-one saw her. She wasn’t here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock spins round - too quickly, because he trips and falls, and ends up crawling on his hands and knees towards his bed.

“What are you …?” John begins, then stops: Sherlock’s not crawling simply because he can’t stand - he’s desperately looking for clues, some proof that Irene bloody Adler was here. In their home. He really is that desperate. Okay, enough is enough. John bends down and hauls Sherlock up. He drags him towards the bed, and drops him there, face-down, determinedly chasing from his mind the thought that he’s imagined many scenarios like this - scenarios which start with him helping an intoxicated Sherlock into bed and end up with his being rogered senseless. 

“Back to bed,” he says firmly, drawing the sheet up over Sherlock for a second time. “You’ll be fine in the morning. Just sleep.”

“Of course I’ll be fine,” Sherlock slurs into his pillow. “I am fine. I’m absolutely fine.”

“Yes, you’re great,” John says bitterly, adding - although Sherlock doesn’t deserve it, “I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock asks. His voice is thick with drugs but still manages to sound like mockery, like a challenge.

“No reason at all,” John sighs, and shuts the door.  
 

________________

   
At the sound of his mobile ringing, so late at night, Mycroft is certain all hell must have broken loose. Or the Prime Minister has ignored his advice and opted for war, at the very least. It’s somewhat of an anticlimax to realize his caller is John Watson.

“You bastard,” the Nephilim snarls. “Mycroft Holmes - you utter bastard.”

“And a good evening to you, too,” Mycroft returns, crisply. “Do you have something important to say, John, or are we merely exchanging pleasantries?”

“Yes, I bloody do have something to say. You can stop sending Sherlock and me into situations where someone puts a gun to my head, for a start.”

“Well, they clearly didn’t pull the trigger,” Mycroft says, “so I’d say no harm done. I’m assuming the mission was a success. Does Sherlock have the photographs?”

A small growl issues from Watson’s throat. 

“Never mind the sodding photographs. You nearly got us both killed. First by the bloody C.I.A., then Irene Adler.”

The C.I.A.? Mycroft’s confused. He’d thought he’d been guaranteed transatlantic cooperation on this one. And not just from the federal agency.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he says, thinking fast. “I had no idea. Please accept my sincere apologies. Is Sherlock all right?”

“He’s out cold. Adler drugged him.”

“Oh dear. That is most unfortunate,” Mycroft murmurs - for John’s sake, because, in fact, fraternal concern for Sherlock’s recovery from his unfortunate ordeal will provide the perfect excuse for turning up at 221B to find out more. “Well, I suppose we’d better let him sleep it off, but I’ll call round in the morning soon to see how he is.”

“He’ll be furious,” Watson warns, grimly. “And with good reason.”

Mycroft laughs. “Oh, Doctor Watson. My brother is always furious. I can’t let that stop me. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Before Watson can argue, Mycroft quickly ends the call. He has important people to phone, urgent checks to make.  
 

________________

   
Sherlock awakes with a thudding head and a throbbing arm, uncertain how he came by either. As he shifts carefully, registering the familiar texture and movement of his own bed, he realizes he has no clear recollection of how he got here, nor why he appears to be almost fully dressed. He never sleeps in his clothes - since he arrived on Earth, it’s been thin pyjamas or nothing - and the abnormality of the situation sets his mind racing. He finds his recent memory banks annoyingly incomplete. (Fuzzy images of a house. A threat to John’s life. A needle, a whip crack, a fall …)

Daylight is pouring in through the uncurtained windows. He pushes up into a sitting position with difficulty and unbuttons his shirt cuff to peel back the sleeve. There’s a bruise on his forearm - a thick stripe of dark red and purple. He finds more bruising on his elbow - three livid stripes - and the joint is swollen. When he flexes his arm to assess the extent of the damage, he realizes his upper arm is tender too. In a flash, it all comes back. Irene Adler beat him - physically, as well as tactically. For a moment, he’s outraged, furious at himself, and at her. A moment later, he can’t help smiling with grudging respect. She played the game well. He’s rarely outwitted - and never, ever, when the stakes are so high. The fact that this time he was is fascinating. Her status as a Dominion was clearly earned but however did she do it?

Trying to get out of bed provides part of the answer: coordinating his limbs requires serious concentration, and the room spins a little when he stands. (Drugged!) He stumbles to the bathroom. (Urination will speed up the elimination process. Urination and lots of water.) He bends down to drink straight from the tap.

He’s patting his mouth dry on a towel, when he hears a soft tap at the door. “You all right in there?”

_John_.

“Fine,” Sherlock lies. He feels mildly sick, and he’d rather John didn’t see him in this state.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Are you dressed?”

“Of course I’m dressed.”

“Then I’m coming in. Doctor’s prerogative.” The door opens, and John’s standing there (checked shirt, cord jeans, furrowed brow). “How are you feeling? You were pretty out of it last night.”

“I’d been _drugged_.”

“Yeah.” One corner of John’s mouth pulls tight. “Wonder how that happened …”

“Irene Adler,” Sherlock begins, slowly, deliberately, but John cuts him off.

“Thought you were married to your work?”

The non sequitur makes Sherlock blink. “What?”

“Yesterday …” John begins, then stops, a faint flush spreading over his cheeks. He clears his throat. “Yesterday-”

A jolt of panic hits Sherlock. What did he do under the influence of Adler’s drug? What did he say? Did he tell Adler what John is? Did he tell _John_ \- and then promptly lose consciousness and leave him to deal with the information on his own?

“Wh-what about yesterday?”

John huffs out a breath and seems to give himself a shake. 

“Nothing,” he says, and forces a smile. “Nothing at all. Just taking the piss.”

But there’s something strange behind his eyes, something he’s not saying.

“Tell me,” Sherlock says, his tone pitched half-way between an order and an entreaty.

John shakes his head again and his shoulders come up (defensiveness), though he masks it with a shrug and opens his eyes innocently wide. 

“Nothing to tell.”

Sherlock takes a step closer. 

“Tell me.” His tone is all command now and, by rights, John should buckle, but he doesn’t. (Whatever he’s hiding, it’s serious. Important.)

“Tell you what,” John says brightly, as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken, “How about I make us some tea. And toast. You’re probably feeling a bit queasy, yeah? Cup of tea, bit of dry toast will sort that.”

Sherlock considers pushing him, insisting on an answer, but he knows John too well. There’s a core of obstinate steel inside him. He’s not a Zemean. He’s not Sherlock’s usual sort of test subject at all. They only talked because they’d been shackled or drugged.

(Oh! Of course!) Sherlock claps his hands together and beams. 

“Thank you, John. That would be lovely. I’ll just …” He makes a vague gesture towards the toilet. “Be with you right away.”

Unsuspecting, John heads off to the kitchen.

Sherlock hurries back into his room, and digs through his drawers. The answer is simple - poetic, even, in the circumstances. He was drugged by Adler; it’s only right that John should get to share in the experience, too. At the back of his bottom drawer, Sherlock keeps his more interesting chemicals. Chemicals of a type that John, as a doctor, would instantly recognize. He’s got syringes, too, and he quickly loads one with sodium thiopenthal, then drops it into his jacket pocket along with a needle. Half-way through donning his jacket, he realizes he won’t simply be able to stick the needle in John’s arm. (John will resist. There could be a fight.) Sherlock goes back to the drawer, and selects a blister-pack of benzodiazepine tablets. (One should be enough.)

John is in the middle of is ferrying breakfast things from the kitchen to the living room table. Plates and a rack of toast in one hand, butter and knives in the other; a jar of jam under one arm. Two large mugs of tea stand steaming on the work surface next to the kettle.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Sherlock says, moving towards them.

As soon as John’s back is turned, Sherlock crushes the tablet between his fingers and drops the resulting powder into John’s mug. He smiles sweetly at John as he sets it down in front of him, and takes the chair opposite to wait.

John makes annoyingly slow progress on his tea. Most of it is Mycroft's fault (who drops in to complain pointlessly about Adler still having her phone) but some of the blame must go to John himself, who shows far too much interest in the ridiculous orgasmic groan Adler's replaced Sherlock text alert sound with. It's all Sherlock can do not to push John's mug to his lips and force the tea down him. But, eventually, Mycroft scuttles off to ingratiate himself at the Palace, and John finally finishes his breakfast. Ten minutes later, his words start to slur. The elbow he's resting on slithers out sideways from under him, and his head thumps down onto his arm.

Sherlock leaps up from his seat, the syringe already in his hand. He tears the needle from its wrapper with his teeth, fits it to the syringe, and injects John straight through the sleeve of his striped cotton shirt. 

He checks his watch. Watches the seconds tick by. When two minutes have elapsed, he pushes John upright in his chair, and gives his cheek a sharp slap.

John grunts and his eyes open. “What? What the…? Did you just … hit me?”

“Yes. Forget it. It doesn’t matter. Now listen: I want you to tell me something.”

John’s head lolls to one side and he smiles drunkenly. “Whadja wanna know?”

“What happened yesterday? After Irene Adler drugged me?”

John frowns. “She told me how you knew. How you knew the code to her safe.”

“Yes, yes - _after_ that.”

“I was angry.” John nods to himself. “Yeah, tha's right - angry. ’cause you said-”

“What? _What_ did I say?”

“You said it wasn't your area.”

“Concentrate, John. Yesterday. When I was drugged, did I say anything odd?”

“Load of rubbish. Didn’t make any sense.”

Sherlock exhales slowly through his nose, closing his eyes in relief. 

“Nothing else? You’re sure?”

“My name,” John says, and the ghost of a wistful smile plays across his face. “You kept saying my name. Then you passed out.”

“Good. That’s good.” (No-one else knows about John. For now, at least, he’s safe.)

“No, not good,” John slurs, and he shakes his head, hard. “You said … married to your work … but Irene Adler …”

He breaks off, sounding wretched, and almost as if he’s in physical pain. (He's jealous! Of Adler!) Sherlock's not sure whether to laugh at his stupidity or rejoice in it. 

“You think I was interested in The Woman,” he marvels. “And it hurts.”

“Good deduction,” John agrees, not even trying to hide the bitterness he’s feeling in his drug-induced need to be truthful.

Sherlock puts a hand under his chin and raises his face until their eyes meet. Sodium thiopenthal plays havoc with short term memory. In a few hours, John will have no recollection of this.

“You’re wrong,” he says softly. “You saw, John, but you didn’t observe. I couldn’t care less about Irene Adler.”

“You knew her measurements,” John argues, blinking against the way the drug is working on him, pulling him under.

“I know your measurements,” Sherlock counters, with a smile. “Does that mean I’m interested in you, too?”

“Not the same.”

“Isn’t it? What would I do, then, if I were interested in you?” Sherlock sees John’s eyes widen, feels the pulse in his throat jump. He leans down until his face mere inches from John’s. “What would you want me to do?”

John swallows audibly at that and if Sherlock were a more righteous kind of Angel, it might make him feel guilty. John’s defences are down; he’s under the influence of a drug that not only compels him to tell the truth but makes him forget the danger in it.

“Touch me,” John says hoarsely, and licks at his lips. “I’d want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“Not there …”

“Where?”

John swallows again. Closes his eyes. When his answer comes, it’s in no more than a whisper. 

“Everywhere. I'd want you to touch me everywhere.”

The words go straight to Sherlock's groin. He knows he should stop but he can't. (This is a one-off opportunity.) (To gather data.) (Only a moron would let it pass.)

“How would you want me to touch you?” he asks, and a little thrill goes through him at the way John trembles at the question and his nostrils flare. 

“Like you meant it. Like you couldn’t live without me.”

“Show me.”

John stares at him, then bursts into giggles. “What? You want me to ..?”

“Yes. I want you to show me.”

“Really?” John asks, still giggling.

“It’s not my area - you know that. Show me.”

He takes his hand from John’s face and moves it to his elbow, using it to draw him up from the table and across the room to the settee.

“Sit.”

John sits. Sherlock grabs one of the hard-backed chairs from the table and sits opposite. For a long, long moment, neither of them moves, neither of them speaks. Then, at last, John leans back to rest his head against the seat back and closes his eyes. 

“All right,” he says and reaches a hand down towards his flies.

Sherlock holds his breath, watching avidly as John pops open the button at his waist and undoes his zip. He can see the dark blue cotton of John’s pants now, and the ridge of flesh beneath them. John lifts his backside from the cushions, wriggling to ease both his cords and pants down. The pale skin of his thighs is sprinkled with fine, light brown hair and all Sherlock’s breath seems to leave him in one shaky exhalation. When John unfastens the bottom buttons of his shirt and pulls the two sides apart, he gasps his breath back in again. John’s penis is already half-erect, rising from a tangle of coarse brown hair. Sherlock’s mouth waters, and his heartbeat goes wild, as John takes himself in his right hand and gives his penis a single, upward stroke. A soft moan escapes his mouth and he rocks his hips, sinking gradually into a rhythm. Sherlock feels as if his heart might burst right out of his chest and he finds himself rocking his own hips too, moving them back and forth minutely, in time with the slow rise and fall of John’s hand. No-one told him Angels could feel like this: empty, and aching, and incomplete.

Concentrate, he thinks fiercely, and forces himself to ignore the sensations blossoming low in his pelvis. (Focus on _John_.)

John’s hand has tightened, its movements growing fast and rough. He's making thin, nasal sounds, too, and his head is arching back, the whole length of his throat exposed. Then his hand suddenly stills, though his thumb rubs frantically at his penis just below the head. He shoves his left hand up under his shirt and rubs at a nipple as well.

Sherlock watches, rapt, as John’s breathing turns shallow and his body starts to shake. A single word - _Sherlock_ \- spills from his lips but after that, it’s just meaningless sounds. John’s hips rise from the sofa cushion and thrust jaggedly up into his hand. His neck tenses and his head slams back as, arching violently, he fights for air. His thighs quiver and flex, then suddenly close, legs pushing up hard through his feet. 

“Oh God,” he groans, falling back, limp, as the breath shudders out of him. “Oh, Sherlock. Oh, God ...”

He’s still now, no voluntary movements at all, just the odd little tremor accompanying his labouring breaths. His left hand is out of sight, still up under his shirt, flat against his chest. The grip of his right on his penis is slowly loosening. His fingers and abdomen glisten sticky and wet.

Sherlock finds he’s pressed the heel of his own hand against his groin, and is tilting his pelvis up to push against it, coils of want writhing hot inside him. He quickly removes it, straightens his jacket and sits up straighter.

John’s eyes stretch open for a moment, then close, and he groans. 

“God, is it morning already ..?”

Sherlock freezes. John’s coming round already. He must have got the dose wrong. He was afraid of overdoing it, but he should have realized that John’s strong. He holds his breath. John ought to sleep for a bit. If he’s quiet …

At length, there’s a snuffle, then a snore, and Sherlock gets carefully to his feet. As quietly as he can, he creeps away and retreats to the safety of his room.

Once inside, he kicks the door shut with his heel and slumps against the wall, fingers fumbling clumsily with his flies. He may be an Angel, but the fierce control he’s been exercising over his desire has finally snapped. He can smell his own sweat.

His trousers drop to his ankles. He leaves them there. Too aroused to get undressed properly, he just shoves a hand into his pants where he stands. His penis is hot and hard, and it twitches against his palm. He closes his hand and jerks it - once, twice, then again - only to wince at the burn. He’s being too hasty, too rough. He closes his eyes and tries again, attempting to replicate what he’s just seen. It’s better, this time (a little), the sensation one of luxury, not pain, but there’s no real excitement in it, no sense that this might relieve his desperate ache. (What did John do?) For a moment, the thought of John is like a charm. Muscles he was holding tight suddenly relax, allowing him to truly feel the slide of his hand, and the grip of it. But then it's gone again. He strokes himself harder and faster, and his penis starts to leak. His hips pump involuntarily with the movement of his hand, but he still feels outside himself, as if he's just watching, and locked in his head. (It wasn’t like this with John. With him, it was all feeling.) ) _John_.) And now Sherlock’s remembering exactly how it felt when John did this. Shivers race up his spine. His testicles tingle and pull tight. (That’s better.) ( _John_.) If the hand working him steadily weren’t his own but John’s … And that’s it. It takes him right to the edge in just two strokes. Two more, and he’s coming, teeth gritted with the effort of not shouting John’s name.

He feels almost peaceful. Head tipped back, and gasping for breath, he lets himself slide slowly to the floor. But as the shudders leave his body, his mind reasserts itself - cataloguing, comparing, contrasting.

(Solitary masturbation was tolerable, despite the physical effort involved, and pleasurable in its way.) (Even so, it was better with John - far better.) (Next time, it must be with John. Except-)

_No such thing as ‘can’t’ for an Angel. There’s only ‘will’ or ‘won’t.’_

Sherlock nods to himself, his mind made up. He won’t wait for Mycroft to prove John’s heritage; he’ll do it himself.


	12. The Ice Man and The Virgin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is helpful, and Mycroft devious. John decides to be brave and Sherlock to be truthful.
> 
> Oh, and everyone gets laid.

At the sound of John’s feet running down the stairs from his room, Sherlock feels a flicker of (annoying) doubt. Only a minute ago, he was certain everything would be okay. He cleared away all evidence of what he had John do as soon as he got his own breath back. Sponged John clean, got him out of his clothes and into pyjamas, then put him to bed (and all without once taking advantage). (Despite John’s delicious pliability and drug-induced nuzzling). But the prospect of facing a conscious John is suddenly terrifying.

John stumbles into the kitchen, scrubbing at his hair.

“Thursday?” he mutters. “How can it be Thursday? I was sure it was Wednesday.”

Still in his pyjamas, dressing gown open and flapping, he looks bleary and flustered, and as if he’s slept for far too long. (Unsurprisingly.) Sherlock swallows.

“Bugger,” John continues grumbling. “I’m going to be late for work.”

He grabs Sherlock’s half-drunk coffee from the table and gulps down a few hasty mouthfuls.

Sherlock keeps his eyes glued firmly to his microscope and says nothing. In a few minutes, he’ll have to engage in some tricky negotiation, and he doesn’t want to ruin his chances of success before he’s even begun. (John’s volatile and irrational when he thinks he’s letting people down.)

And so Sherlock lets John steal a piece of the toast he no longer feels like eating without a word, and waits patiently as he disappears down the hallway to the bathroom. When he hears the door click shut, and water from a tap start running, he counts slowly to ten, then pushes up from the table and follows. He doesn’t enter the bathroom immediately: there’s something he needs from his own room first.

His spare lab equipment is in a box on top of the wardrobe. He lifts it down and rifles through the smaller items until he finds the little glass tube he’s looking for. He sets the vacutainer on the bed, replaces the box and takes a deep breath. (John has to agree to this. He _has_ to.)

A little voice at the back of Sherlock’s mind (a voice that sounds steely and disappointed, and horribly like John’s) reminds him (yet again) that he didn’t bother seeking John’s agreement before drugging him. (Nor before-) Sherlock snaps at it to shut the hell up. He did what he had to. If the cocktail of drugs Adler stuck him with had him blurting out John’s secret not just to Adler but to John himself, he had to know. To have flinched from the task would have been cowardice of the worst kind. But that doesn’t mean he wants to act without John’s consent this time, or ever again. He doesn’t like feeling guilty. He’s not used to it.

He lifts the vacutainer from the bed, straightens his jacket and opens the bathroom door.

John is at the basin, face bearded with shaving foam and, in the mirror, his reflection scowls at the intrusion.

Sherlock pretends not to notice.

“John,” he says, warmly. “Perfect. You’re still here. I need your help. Well, I say ‘help’ but I suppose what I really mean is I need something from you. When you’re done. Nothing major. Just a few millilitres of blood.”

“You what?”

In the mirror, John face has taken on that wide-eyed, flared-nostrils look that sometimes heralds gushing astonishment, and sometimes furious anger. Sherlock rather loves it. Loves the suspenseful tease of it, the challenge of prediction. This morning, he’s sure it’s surprise, but he’s keeping at a safe distance, with the door open, just in case. John packs quite a punch. (He may not be a full Angel but he’s almost got the strength of one.)

“Blood.” Sherlock shows John the vacutainer between his thumb and forefinger. “Ten mil should be more than enough.”

“Why?” John’s eyes have darkened and his nostrils flare slightly. (Suspicion.) (Not good!)

Unable to tell John the truth (he can’t know until there’s solid proof), Sherlock lets the corners of his mouth droop and heaves a dramatic sigh. “ _Bored_.”

It does the trick. It’s such a constant complaint that John’s suspicion is instantly dispelled. He rolls his eyes, and goes back to shaving.

“Leaving aside the fact that you could accept a not-funny case for the sake of the rent,” he says, drawing his razor up his cheeks in short, careful strokes, “why mine? You’ve got loads of samples at the back of the fridge you could play with.”

It’s a good question. Sherlock listens to the rasp of John’s razor (Gillette Fusion, five blades, with tocopherol acetate and Aloe Barbadensis lubrastrips) as it slices through his barely-there stubble, and weighs up his best response.

“They’re Mycroft’s,” he says, at last. “I don’t care about _his_ body chemistry.”

John freezes, razor poised over the soft skin of his throat. His hesitation is telling, and Sherlock seizes the opportunity.

“Please,” he says softly. “I’d find _yours_ far more interesting.”

John’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Sherlock-”

“It’s all right. I know what I’m doing. I’ve researched everything thoroughly online and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve …” He drops the pitch of his voice to a rumble and takes a step nearer. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. One quick prick and-”

John hisses in a breath and curses. “Bugger!”

The razor blade has nicked his throat and there’s blood beading red from the wound.

“You and your constant bloody…” John’s words trail off in a growl of exasperation and he tears a sheet of toilet tissue from the roll.

Instantly, Sherlock is in front of him, catching his wrist.

“Wait. Let me …” He raises the vacutainer to the wound and places it over the cut, watching entranced as it fills. John’s blood is glossy, dark and beautiful - half-Angel, Sherlock’s sure.

He stoppers the tube swiftly and takes the tissue from John’s hand, pressing it firmly to the cut. Under his fingertips, he can feel the thump-thump-thump of John’s carotid pulse - fast, and getting faster. Sherlock feels his own pulse jump in response. He knows what these symptoms mean. His flicks his gaze up to meet John’s, seeking confirmation that now would be perfect moment to kiss him, but John is frowning, his mouth pursed.

“Sherlock - what are you doing?”

For a moment, Sherlock is thrown. He reviews the data rapidly. (Accelerated pulse rate. Shallow breathing. Exposed throat. Acquiescence to touch.) (All signs - surely? - of attraction and the desire for even greater intimacy.) And yet John’s pulling away.

“Sherlock ..?” John asks again.

“What? Yes?” Sherlock struggles to pull himself together, and his gaze falls on the spot where his fingers still rest on John’s skin. “Oh. This. Applying pressure. Stems the, uh, bleeding. Encourages coagulation. Prevents bruising.”

In his jacket pocket, Sherlock’s phone vibrates and Adler’s text alert gives another orgasmic moan.

“Yeah,” John grunts, and pushes Sherlock roughly away. “Doctor here, remember? So why don’t you just answer that and stop getting in the way?”

The words sting, but the opportunity is golden. (Time to put the plan into action.) Sherlock closes his hand around the vacutainer and retreats to his room to prepare the sample for testing, along with one of his own blood. As soon as he hears John leave for work, he stuffs the samples into his inside pocket where his body heat will keep them at the correct incubation temperature and hurries down to the street to hail a taxi.

The journey to Bart’s is surprisingly quick. After a quick glance around, Sherlock lets himself into the DNA suite in the basement with the key he confiscated from Molly a couple of months ago (she was simpering. It was annoying), and locks the door behind him. Restriction enzymes, he has plenty of at home but Bart’s has an electrophoresis machine.

He takes a tub of agarose powder from the storage cupboard, weighs some out and adds water, stirring well, before pouring the resulting mixture into a mould and taking a seat beside it to wait for the gel to set.  
 

__________

   
Waking up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee is a new experience for Mycroft, so new, in fact, as to be almost shocking. He sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes, considering the possibility of olfactory hallucination. Then he hears cupboard doors banging, a sudden hard thud and a shouted expletive.

Gregory. Gregory stayed the night.

Mycroft takes the briefest of showers, dresses in his best Paul Smith three-piece and goes downstairs.

He finds Lestrade on one of the kitchen stools, hunched over a mug of coffee on the granite worktop, looking terrible - more Earthian than Fallen.

“I have analgesics somewhere,” Mycroft says, and begins a hunt of the drawers. He finds a box of the things that fizz and fills a glass with water from the tap, then sets them down in front of Lestrade. “Take these.”

“You’re an angel,” Lestrade says with a weak smile.

“Indeed. And you, Gregory, are an idiot. How much of my single malt did you consume after I went to bed?”

Lestrade sets the Alka Seltzers to dissolve noisily and groans. “Don’t remind me.”

Mycroft helps himself to coffee, puts a pain au chocolat in the oven to warm.

“Dry toast for you, I think, Inspector,” he says primly and drops two slices of bread into the toaster. “If we’re ever to get to the bottom of Stamford’s role in all this, I need you fully functional, not hideously hungover.”

Lestrade grunts and swallows down his medicine. “Your fault. You wanted company, remember?”

It’s true. Damery’s polite disappointment regarding Sherlock’s failure to obtain Adler’s incriminating photos was unbearable, and their subsequent analysis of the debacle skated dangerously close to revealing Mycroft’s own dealings with The Woman. He needed something - someone - to take his mind off things after that, and help him refocus. He feels weak and ridiculous now.

“I invited your here to assist in strategizing,” Mycroft sniffs. “And you were … not unhelpful. But I thought you were going home.”

“Home!” Lestrade lets out a bitter snort. “Home’s in Dorset. Well, it was. Just after you went up, I got a text. From the missus. She wants us to meet up.”

Mycroft blinks, feeling a pang of something right in the centre of his chest. Very probably indigestion and the result of consuming too much whisky himself last night.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” he asks warily.

Lestrade mouth twists. “Not really. I reckon this is it. That she wants a divorce.”

A ping announces that the oven is up to temperature and Mycroft turns his attention back to his pain au chocolat, his indigestion miraculously gone.  
   
   
A little while after Mycroft has consumed his breakfast - and brushed the wayward flakes of pastry from his lips - his phone rings. As it’s Gabriel, Mycroft leaves Lestrade to continue chomping queasily through his toast alone and goes out to the conservatory.

Gabriel is in a particularly beatific mood and Mycroft fancies he can hear the odd harp being plucked in the background as the Arch’s voice purrs into his ear.

“We are so very pleased with you, Mycroft. Your solution to our problem is brilliant. Congratulations. Very, very well done. Your ingenuity does you credit.”

Mycroft feels himself flush with pleasure and he preens a little, adjusting the knot of his tie, as he makes a soft sound of self-deprecation. He’s painfully aware that the solution Gabriel speaks of - Bond Air - is far from ready for execution but praise is praise, and praise from On High very rare, especially with Sherlock for a brother. Mycroft must enjoy it whilst he can.

“That’s very kind of you,” he replies, “but I seek only to serve.”

“We are glad to hear it, but your service has been noted,” Gabriel replies, “and when your performance on Earth is reviewed, this will not be forgotten.”

The rituals of Heavenly courtesy are so deeply ingrained in Mycroft that he inclines his head as if Gabriel were in the room and could see it. Then a thought occurs, and he clears his throat.

“Does this mean my access to The Seven has been reinstated?”

There’s a long silence before Gabriel replies.

“You have so much potential, Mycroft. It would be a sin - would it not? - if it were not fully realized.”

A cold lump forms in Mycroft’s stomach. Under the softness of Gabriel’s words, there’s the sharp edge of a threat. He’s gone too far.

“We are pleased with your work, Mycroft. You are discreet and punctilious, and you know how to obey without asking foolish questions. Which is why you have attained a certain rank and your brother, despite his brilliance, has not. He asks too many questions, and strays into areas beyond his understanding. Do not seek to follow his example.”

“I wasn’t- I wouldn’t- I assure you -” Mycroft stops himself short. He’s babbling. He takes a breath to steady himself and when he speaks again, it’s in his usual smooth tones. “I thought only to accelerate my communications with Management.”

Gabriel gives a little hum of approval. “Good, but do not trouble yourself on that account. If we need you to be more speedy, we will let you know. You may return to your work.”

Thus dismissed, Mycroft puts his phone away. The call has left him unsettled, and he can’t seem to summon the will or energy to return to the house. Instead, he plucks a dead leaf from one of the house plants the conservatory is furnished with, and worries at it with his fingers, trying to tease out from Gabriel’s words all the things the Arch wasn’t saying.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, pondering, but at some point footsteps sound behind him and a warm, comforting hand settles on his shoulder.

“Mycroft? You okay?”

Mycroft pulls himself taller and, turning to face Lestrade, he pastes on a bright smile.

“Absolutely!”

Lestrade gives him a shrewd look. “Liar.”

Mycroft stretches his smile tighter still, and opens his eyes wide. “Really, Lestrade-”

“My friends call me Greg,” Lestrade replies. He’s smiling but his eyes are darting about Mycroft’s face anxiously. “And, God knows how or why, but you seem to be one of them. So tell me - what’s wrong?”

Mycroft sighs, a long exhalation of defeat. “Gabriel,” he says simply.

“Gabriel,” Lestrade - Greg echoes, rolling his eyes. “ ‘God is my strength’. God give me strength, more like. Let me guess. He was being a pious git.”

“He was reminding me of my duty.”

“You don’t have to deal with him, you know,” Greg says, laying a hand on Mycroft’s arm. “He likes to think he’s God’s special messenger, but all Archs are equal, right? I always used to go through Uriel. Unconditional forgiveness - that’s his thing. Well, that and spiritual understanding. And he is - understanding.”

“And yet you were condemned …”

Greg shrugs. “Yeah, well. My own fault really. And the thing with Uriel … he never made it sound _final_ , you know? Let me talk to him for you.”

Too humiliated to explain why this is a bad idea, Mycroft shakes free of Lestrade’s hand and glowers. “You will do no such thing. You will stick to your investigation of Stamford. You are a Fallen, Gregory. Your place is to follow orders.”  
 

__________

   
A nervous flutter rises from Sherlock’s chest to his throat as he leans over the buffer-filled tray. A line of gel wells sit in the liquid, waiting, and his hand shakes minutely as he lines up the pipette nozzles over them. He had a pipette in hand the first time he set eyes on John, he remembers, but back then, his hand was steady, his heart untroubled by Attachment. He wills his hand steady now. The test is too important for errors.

First, a sample of his own blood, then John’s. He closes the electrophoresis chamber and switches the machine on.

In an hour, he’ll know. Know for sure what John is. His stomach butterflies madly at the thought. The possibility that John may be an ordinary little Earthian after all tries to assert itself, insisting he shouldn’t get his hopes up, but Sherlock pushes it away. (John is special. Perfect. Even an idiot can see that.) Even so, he gets up and starts to pace.  
 

__________

   
With three hours to waste before Baby Clinic, John finds himself in the pub around the corner from the surgery, jostling to get served at the bar. Ordinarily, he’d have gone back to the flat and put the time to better use but Sherlock will be there, with his phone, and if John has to listen to another of Irene Adler’s breathy text alerts, he may end up breaking something.

The pub’s busy and all around there are little whirlpools of conversation that suck John in, then spit him out again. Work colleagues out on their lunch break; friends catching up over a drink; lovers too impatient to be together to wait for the evening for a date. Colleagues, friends, lovers … John squirms inwardly at ever having thought all of those terms might one day apply to him and Sherlock; then squirms again at what a total idiot he was earlier. He should never have let himself imagine that Sherlock’s interest in his blood signalled any real interest in the rest of him. And he really shouldn’t have stood there, frozen by lust and the terror of showing it, letting Sherlock manhandle him. Not now Irene Adler’s on the scene. Because it’s painfully obvious that Sherlock is interested in her. John wonders what happens next. Irene traipsing around the flat naked? Being kept awake night after night by the sound of banging headboard and definitely-not-text-alert orgasmic shouts?

He waves the tenner in his hand at the bar staff more aggressively. He needs a drink, damn it. Bloody Sherlock. Bloody Irene. Is this how Dad’s problems started? With someone he didn’t dare confess his feelings to? Did he wait too long and then find it was too late, because suddenly, there was someone else? No wonder he turned so angry and violent.

“John!”

A familiar voice breaks through John’s grim reverie, as a plump body squeezes in at the bar next to him. It’s Mike Stamford. John acknowledges him reluctantly. He’s really not in the mood for small talk, and it’s a relief to have the excuse of needing to catch the barman’s eye to avoid making conversation.

But, of course, eventually he gets served and it seems churlish not to offer Mike a pint.

“Get me a beef and onion sandwich too, mate?” Mike asks.

John orders the food with as much good grace as he can muster and they move off together in search of a vacant table. Mike digs a hand into a trouser pocket as they walk. Then the other. Then his jacket pockets before coming to an abrupt half. He pats his breast pocket, opens up his jacket and peer at the inside pocket, his expression getting more embarrassed by the second.

“Oh, God - how’s that happened?” he mutters. “Sorry, John. I’ve only gone and left my wallet back at the lab.”

John shrugs. “It’s all right. You only had a beer and a sandwich. Don’t worry about it.”

“But _I owe you_ ,” Mike argues, repeating his pocket search.

“Seriously, Mike. It’s fine. But if it worries you, you can buy me lunch some time.”

Mike nods. “Okay, mate. Ta.”

People on the bench right in front of them are getting up to leave, and they quickly slip in behind them. The bench is pretty short, and narrow, and Mike takes a while to get comfortable, mac bunching under his substantial thighs as he fidgets about, striped tie narrowly missing getting dunked in his beer.

“This is a bit out of your way, isn’t it?” John asks, once he’s settled. “Thought you always had lunch in the Viaduct.”

Mike grimaces and takes a bite of his sandwich. “It’s where the bright young things go.”

John smiles sympathetically. He’s feeling pretty dull and old himself, and can’t seem to think of anything interesting to say.

“Sherlock ever find out who was behind the Tilly Briggs killings?” Mike asks eventually. There are breadcrumbs on his trousers, and a tiny sliver of onion on his tie.

John shakes his head. “The trail went cold. Sherlock couldn’t prove anything. Then the owners got difficult. Threatened to take us to court over the things I posted on the blog.”

“Yeah. I saw you had to take that entry down. That was a real shame. Cracking story in itself, but if it’d stayed up, someone might’ve come forward with new information.” Mike takes a swig of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What about the body in the boot, then? The one that had him ‘baffled, flummoxed and bamboozled’.”

John winces at hearing the quote from his blog. On Mike’s lips they sound unnecessarily harsh, when John had only meant them to be teasing.

“He was _not_ happy with that entry, so for God’s sake don’t bring it up when you see him again. He hates not knowing. Doesn’t do much for his temper.”

“No. Don’t suppose it does. Two cases he couldn’t solve within two months of each other and him usually so brilliant. He must think the universe is conspiring against him.”

“I tried telling him people think the ones he can’t solve make him more human,” John says, “but that didn’t go down very well, either.”

“No. I don’t suppose it would.” Mike sucks his teeth thoughtfully. “But, you know, I think we might be able to help him out …”

“ ‘We’ ?”

“Well, he won’t listen to me. Thinks I’m boring. But he’ll listen to _you_. From what Molly tells me, you’re the _only_ person he listens to.”

John feels a rush of warmth go through him. He’d love to believe that.

“The thing is,” Mike continues, taking another sip of beer. “I reckon there could be a link between those cases.”

“A link? Lestrade didn’t say anything.”

Mike purses his lips. “Not sure he made the connection.” He smiles and shrugs. “Perhaps it doesn’t exist. I’m no detective.”

“What was it, Mike?” John asks, slightly impatient now. If Mike’s got something to say, something that might help Sherlock, he wishes he’d hurry up and spit it out.

“There were cuts on the body. Tiny shallow little cuts, made with a very sharp blade, _after_ death, then cleaned up so well, they were scarcely visible.” Mike’s eyes seem to have grown sharper, brighter. “But the really interesting thing is where I found them. Lower back, right-hand side of the thorax, sternum, eyelids.”

“Kidneys, liver, heart, corneas,” John says, slowly. “Like the Tilly Briggs.”

“Except the organs were all still there. Not even an attempt to remove them.”

“So why ..?”

Mike shrugs. “Best I can come up with is that it’s a message.”

“A message so subtle the police missed it?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t meant for them. Perhaps it was meant for-”

“Sherlock,” John supplies. “It was meant for _Sherlock_.” He gets to his feet. “I need to tell him. I need to tell him right now.”

He’s almost at the exit when he hears Mike shouting after him.

“John! Don’t forget - I owe you!”

John raises a hand and nods, wondering when Mike got so anxious about paying people back.  
 

__________

   
Five minutes before the electrophoresis process is complete, Sherlock’s nerves are so tightly strung, he feels ready to snap. When his phone rings, he actually jumps.

A nervous voice witters into his ear.

“Sherlock? It’s Molly? Molly Hooper? From Bart’s? There’s something-” Her rising inflection turns everything into a question, and it grates.

“How did you get this number?” Sherlock demands, talking over her. His number is known only to a select few, every one of them fifty percent Angel, at a bare minimum.

“Uh, Mike?” Molly offers uncertainly. “He said you’d want to know.”

(Mike? Mike _Stamford_? The Angel posing as a Fallen?) Sherlock feels his eyes narrow reflexively. Suddenly, this is getting interesting. He softens his tone to a far more encouraging one.

“I’d want to know what, Molly?”

“The people on the boat. They’d all been exposed to high doses of anaesthesia.”

“Unsurprising,” Sherlock sighs, disappointed. “The traffickers would have wanted to keep the goods in the best possible condition. They wouldn’t have killed until they had to.”

“But- but the anaesthetic was the same,” Molly says. She sounds breathless, excited. (Not that that’s unusual. Eye contact can make her hyperventilate.)

“That would have been the most efficient way-” Sherlock begins, but Molly interrupts. (She _never_ interrupts.) Sherlock blinks.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I meant the anaesthetic used on the Tilly Briggs people was the same as the one we found in Julia Stoner’s system.”

 _Stoner was killed by a poisoned bubble bath_ , Sherlock wants to argue, but no sooner has the thought occurred than new images fly into his head. Bubbles, hot water … (Steam! The perfect medium for getting anaesthetic into an unsuspecting victim, especially in an enclosed, windowless room.) The memory of John bent over Stoner’s bath tub, inhaling that stuff makes Sherlock’s gorge rise and it takes him a moment to drag his thoughts away from what might have happened to what actually did.

(Julia Stoner was asked to test a new bubble bath by her stepfather.) (She absorbed the poisonous anaesthetic it contained through her skin, and the inhalation of steam.) (The anaesthetic was identical to that used on the Tilly Briggs … Stoner’s stepfather is somehow connected to the organ traffickers.)

The electrophoresis machine pings. The profiles are ready to read. Sherlock ends Molly’s call and pockets his phone. (This is it.) His heart is in his mouth and his hand shakes a little as he takes the cards over to the UV transilluminator. He studies his own profile first. Under the transilluminator, the bands seem to glow, an uneven ladder of genetic data. This is what an Angel looks like at his most basic level. It’s a minor miracle.

Sherlock removes his profile from the machine and inserts John’s. He can scarcely breathe as he leans into the eyepiece. There it is: John’s glowing ladder. Rung after gleaming rung of it, emerging from the dark base where the restriction enzymes have eaten away common Earthian sequences and stretching up into ever thinner, bright lines.

Sherlock clenches a fist in triumph: John’s profile is almost identical to his own.  
 

__________

   
“John! John! JOHN!” Sherlock’s feet are light as he bounds up the stairs to the flat. Sunlight is streaming in through the little stained glass window, painting the normally dismal hallway with colour and making the dust motes glitter.

He flies through the flat, picturing how John’s face will look when he tells him the news; how his mouth will fall open in amazement for the split second it will take before Sherlock covers it with his own. This time everything will be all right; he can see it all - golden and perfect. There’ll be no hesitation, no sensible restraint. Sherlock will kiss John, and John will kiss him back. And then Sherlock will walk John backwards towards his room, patiently explaining everything as he peels off John’s clothes. At first John will look shocked, then incredulous, but eventually he’ll smile. He’ll get his feet caught in his trousers in his eagerness to kick them off and collapse, giggling, down with Sherlock onto his bed.

But John’s not in the living room, not in the kitchen, nor the bathroom. He’s nowhere to be seen. Sherlock races to the foot of the stairs up to John’s room and shouts up to him.

“JOHN!”

At last Sherlock hears movement, and sees John appear on the landing above.

“All right, all right,” he grumbles. “I’m coming.”

Sherlock grins (not yet, perhaps, but soon) and a shiver goes up his spine at the thought - just before the world turns cold and grey. John is wearing his coat, and lugging an overstuffed suitcase down the stairs, the bump of it against the treads like the beat of an ominous drum.

(John is leaving! Why is he leaving? He can’t. He mustn’t. Not now. Not ever-)

“John.” Sherlock’s tongue feels thick and numb. “What are you doing?”

“Harry,” John says, his eyes shuttered, his shoulders tense. “She’s in hospital. Suffered a bleed-out. A neighbour found her. It’s a wonder she isn’t dead.”

“But John, I’ve got-” Sherlock reaches out a hand as John turns towards the stairs down to the front door, but John evades it, a grim expression on his face.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m all she’s got.”

He makes it as far as the top step before Sherlock’s brain kicks into gear. Or maybe it’s not his brain, because the words that spill from his mouth are unforgivable.

“It won’t do any good,” he hears himself say. “Even with the best will in the world, an alcoholic’s chances of staying sober are only thirty-five to forty percent.”

John flinches, hurt flashing in his eyes, but he nods, his jaw tight. “Yeah. I know. But I have to try.”

Sherlock gives a derisive snort, but he’s floundering. He casts his mind around wildly, looking for some other argument that might carry more weight.

“What about your girlfriend?” he demands, grasping at the first straw he finds. “She’s what - ten years younger than you? Bright. Pretty - in a big-nosed kind of way. D’you think she’ll wait around indefinitely for you to come back?”

Sherlock watches helplessly as John’s fist tightens around the handle of his suitcase.

“No. I don’t,” John says coldly. “That’s why I told her we had to break up. At first she didn’t want to, but I convinced her. And, _unlike some people_ , she had the grace to wish me good luck with it.”

“Luck!” Sherlock scoffs. “You’ll need more than that. You’ll need a _miracle_. Your sister is hell-bent on drinking herself to death and nothing you can say or do will change that. She’s always going to love alcohol more than she loves you. Meanwhile, you’re destroying your own life in a futile attempt to save hers. What about your job at the surgery? Don’t you care about that?”

John shrugs, but it’s a weary gesture not a defiant one.

“I quit,” he says quietly. “And - before you ask - yes, if you need to rent out my room, go ahead. Do it.”

“I don’t want to rent out your room!” Sherlock snaps. “I want you to stay here!”

John shakes his head. “Can’t. Sorry. So you’d better get out of my way.”

He doesn’t wait for Sherlock to acquiesce, just pushes past and stomps determinedly down the stairs. But just before opening the front door, he stops and looks back over his shoulder.

“Oh. I forgot. Mike told me something you might want to know. I left a note on your desk.”

Mike? Sherlock doesn’t want to know about Mike. Why would John think he does? By the time Sherlock’s worked it out, John has gone.  
 

__________

   
For mid-afternoon, the Chelmford train is unpleasantly busy, and the quiet little corner John’s nabbed at the rear of the train is soon invaded. Three blokes in football shirts take the spare seats at his table. They crack open cans of lager and argue passionately about tactics and where their team will be at the end of the season. John turns his face to the window and stares out, but they’re travelling through the tunnels out of Liverpool Street, and all he can see is his own wretched reflection staring back.  
 

__________

   
Coming up with brilliant plans is easy, Mycroft reflects, as he contemplates the slew of Top Secret documents cluttering his desk and the tangled schematics on his computer screen; putting them into effect is the tricky part. Bond Air will work - the Düsseldorf trial run has proved that - but the logistics are taking an ungodly amount of organizing. He rubs at his temples, certain another headache is on its way.

His office door bangs open and Sherlock strides in, confirming it. Anthea hovers in the doorway, awaiting orders, and Mycroft’s sorely tempted to tell her to summon security and have Sherlock flung out, but sometimes the simplest approach works best. He shuts his computer, scoops his papers into a desk drawer and locks it tight.

“Brother, dear-”

“You were supposed to meet me at Angelo’s an hour ago,” Sherlock interrupts, his eyes darting about the room and taking everything in. He strides over to flick Mycroft’s desk lamp on and off again, makes a soft gratified sound as if the lamp is somehow extremely telling, and looks up. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” Mycroft assures him, moving the lamp out of Sherlock's reach. “Since you know I don’t eat in tacky little restaurants, I assumed it was a joke.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Wonders will never cease.”

“Get your coat, Mycroft. We’re going. Now.”

“And people say you lack charm …”

Mycroft waves Andrea away and crosses to the coat-stand to don his made-to-measure Crombie. He buttons it slowly, with deliberate care.

“Oh, for God’s sake, get a move on!” Sherlock snaps. “Mycroft, I swear you’re getting older and slower every time I see you.”

“So much better than the alternative, I always think,” Mycroft returns sweetly, and leads the way to the lift.  
   
   
Angelo’s, Mycroft discovers, is a sorry excuse for an Italian restaurant located in Soho. The wine list is mediocre and there are four offences against the Italian language on the first page of the menu alone. As for the dishes listed, they’re more greasy spoon than haute cuisine.

“This had better be worth it,” he mutters darkly, as a nervous youth in an ill-fitting suit deposits an all too predictable basket of tough, ‘Italian style’ bread on the table.

Sherlock leans back in his chair, arms folded. He waits until the boy has disappeared before speaking.

“I heard from Stamford today.”

Mycroft feels a prickle of unease. “You saw him?”

“No. He sent me a couple of messages.”

Mycroft’s unease shifts toward worry. Stamford looked alarmingly comfortable with Irene Adler in that photograph Lestrade found. Who knows what information they may have shared, what plots they may have hatched together? Sherlock is entirely too certain of his own brilliance; they could easily take him in, and the fact that Sherlock’s looking so pleased with himself does nothing to allay Mycroft’s concern.

“What kind of message?” he asks.

“Something that might actually prove useful.”

“Do I need to remind you we can’t trust him?”

“I’m not an idiot, Mycroft. I’ve been at Bart’s most of the afternoon, verifying the information myself.”

“And?”

“He was telling the truth. The anaesthetic used to knock out the party-goers on the Tilly Briggs was the same one that killed Julia Stoner. It was also used on the body Lestrade had me look at in Southwark - the body of a Nephilim. But here’s where it gets really interesting. The Nephilim’s body had been mutilated. Incisions over the eyes, liver, heart and kidneys - just like the Tilly Briggs victims - only with a lot less blood and no loss of internal organs.”

Mycroft feels a chill run up his back. He can see how this is going to develop. This is a puzzle, and Sherlock could never resist a puzzle. He’ll start meddling in matters that are none of his concern - namely the Düsseldorf flight. And it won’t take him long to realize what the flight was for, and who was behind it. Then he’ll raise merry Hell - very possibly literally once Management become aware of what he’s doing. Mycroft has to stop this, and stop it now.

“Yes,” he says. “That is interesting, but Stamford remains an unknown quantity. He lied to us about his status; why is he coming forward with information now? What does he have to gain from your knowing it?”

“I expect he thinks I’ll be able to join up the dots. See the pattern.”

“Pattern?”

“Obviously.”

“And beyond that? This needs looking into, Sherlock. I’ll put my best people onto it immediately.”

Sherlock snorts. “Your best people are Earthians. You don’t need them. You need me.”

Mycroft itches to forbid Sherlock from getting involved, but knows any such order will only encourage him to dig deeper.

“Well, if you’re sure, but I’d have thought your first concern would be John …”

Sherlock’s expression turns sour - a glare of epic proportions - but, behind it, he looks lost.

Mycroft leans in across the table, alarmed. There’s clearly something wrong, and it involves John, Mycroft’s get-out-of-jail-free card.

“What’s the matter? Did something happen? Did you push him away?”

“No. He went of his own accord. His sister’s in hospital.”

“Hospital?” Mycroft wasn’t expecting that, though he probably should have done, given Harriet Watson’s genetic inheritance and background. “It is serious?”

“He took a suitcase,” Sherlock says, visibly deflating.

“Then go to him,” Mycroft urges, his spirits rising again. John Watson is a godsend in so many ways: something amazing to present to Management when the time is right and, in the meantime, something to ensure Sherlock’s too distracted to start putting two and two together and making four. “If his sister’s condition is that bad, he’ll need your support. I’ll look after things at this end.”

Sherlock inhales sharply, as if that option hadn’t occurred to him.

“Go,” Mycroft says again.

Sherlock scowls and says he’ll think about it.  
 

__________

   
For two days, Sherlock thinks about little else, and in the end, he cracks, and orders a taxi to Liverpool Street.

It’s dark by the time his train pulls into Chelmsford station. He thought about texting John en route but decided against it: John hasn’t contacted him once since he left so it’s highly likely he’d have said not to bother; might even have insisted Sherlock not come at all. In the minicab he takes from the station (a black Ford Mondeo, 09 plates), he tries to work out what he’ll say. He wants to tell John how special he is - and not simply because he’s a Nephilim - but he wants that moment to be unsullied and perfect, not tainted by John’s sister’s disease.

Broomfield Hospital is a modern building whose utilitarian exterior has been rendered more welcoming by a forest of brightly coloured standing structures. Sherlock strides past them and goes inside in search of Reception.

He’s not allowed to join John on the ward, so he sits outside, hating the smell of antiseptic and despair, the harsh fluorescent lighting, the unforgivingly hard plastic chairs. The central heating is set too high and it’s been a long day. His eyelids start to droop.

How long he sits there, he has no idea. Time no longer has any meaning. He comes to when a hand closes on his shoulder, and shakes him. The hand is John’s.

“Sherlock - what are _you_ doing here?” The words are softly spoken, but there’s something hostile behind them. Sherlock’s taken aback. It didn’t occur to him that his presence might be actively unwelcome.

John looks tired, angry and sad, although as usual, he’s holding it all in. Sherlock gets to his feet.

“How is she?” He doesn’t care, but John does, and that’s reason enough to ask.

John looks down at his feet, huffing out a breath. “On haemodialysis. They’ve given her thiamine and she’s getting oxygen …” He stops, biting his lip. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. I can’t do this again. It’s too hard.”

Sherlock wants to touch him but even though John’s right in front of him, he seems far, far away.

“She went to a party,” John goes on. “Clara was there. With a bloke. It got nasty. So, instead of taking a breath and cutting her losses, my sister decided the only answer was to get completely legless.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to that, other than, “Come home. Come back to Baker Street.” In his pocket, his phone gives a breathy moan.

John looks up, misery etched into every line of his face. “I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to, but I just _can’t_.”

 

And he doesn’t. Not for weeks. Sherlock gets a couple of texts about Harry’s progress when all he really wants to hear about is John. Instead, John avoids talking about himself entirely until one morning in late October, he sends Sherlock a message saying Harry’s got a place in rehab and he’ll back in London on the first of November.

Sherlock tries not to count the days.  
 

__________

   
Amongst the many things the Diogenes Club does well is selecting whisky. Mycroft swirls his measure of Ardbeg Corryvreckan around its Waterford tumbler, admiring the golden colour of it before taking a sniff. Pine needles, butter and a faint wisp of peat smoke: it smells warm and inviting and now he allows himself one small sip. The taste of orange peel tingles on his tongue, followed by salt and spice, and he closes his eyes in sheer delight. Maybe the Fallen have it right. If he could afford such luxuries without Management’s financial backing, he might be tempted to try finding out. Fine spirits, French patisserie and oak-panelled private rooms are surely better than the constant need to worry about one’s position in the hierarchy, or the reckless stupidity of one’s brother.

A creak out in the hallway announces the near-silent approach of one of the staff, his soft shoe covers muffling the sound of footsteps on floorboards. There’s single tap on the door and Mycroft bids the Earthian enter. The creature steps forward, a small white card in his white-gloved hands.

 _Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Metropolitan Police_ , it reads in brash, ugly print. Mycroft nods once, and the Earthian slips away. A few minutes later, Lestrade is being ushered into the room and the door closes silently behind him. At the sight of him, Mycroft is assailed by an unexpected landslide of _feeling_ : an unpleasant rising sensation in the chest, a tightening of the throat, and an agitated fluttering low in his belly. He grips his glass harder, suddenly angry.

He hasn’t heard from Lestrade for weeks - not since he had to remind the Fallen of his subordinate position, in fact - and he has no intention of holding out an olive branch in the face of such emotional blackmail simply because Lestrade has finally decided to grace him with his presence. Mycroft has to deal with more than enough pouting from Sherlock.

Lestrade shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, as if there’s something he wants to say but can’t quite pluck up the courage. Instead, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his chain-store mac and does a slow scan of the room, nodding to himself and giving soft little thought-so grunts as he takes in the crystal chandelier, the leather-bound books on the shelves and the antique armchairs.

“Nice.”

Mycroft pulls himself taller in his chair. “There are rewards for good service.”

“Looks like it,” Lestrade says, and for some reason, it feels like a criticism.

Mycroft bristles.

“Is there a purpose to your visit, Inspector?” he asks.

“Just following orders. Your orders. You wanted me to keep you informed about Mike Stamford.”

Mycroft swallows down the bitter taste of … disappointment?

“And?”

“He’s left London. Last seen catching an East Coast train heading north. CCTV at King’s Cross caught him two days ago. After that, the trail goes cold. But I’ve got people out looking.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Though I hope you’ve impressed upon them the need to be dis-”

The rest of Mycroft’s sentence is drowned out by a jangling blare of popular music. As he recoils from the awful sound, Lestrade takes out his phone and puts it to his ear. Mycroft’s about to protest the insult to his authority when the reverent expression on Lestrade’s face stops him short. Lestrade is clearly talking to someone far more elevated than a mere Principality.

“Uh huh. Absolutely.” Lestrade scratches at the back of his bowed head as he speaks, drawing Mycroft’s attention to his hair. It’s longer than when Mycroft last saw him, and silkier, too; the complexity of its different greys more pronounced. Mycroft takes another large sip of whisky and looks away.

“Actually, I’m with him right now,” he hears Lestrade say. “That’s right - just him and me.” There’s a pause, then Lestrade is right in front of Mycroft, holding out his phone. “He wants a word.”

“Who?” Mycroft mouths, praying it’s Michael: he’s had far too many veiled threats from Gabriel of late.

“Uriel,” Lestrade mouths back.

 _Uriel_? Mycroft’s heart stutters violently. This couldn’t be worse. To take Lestrade’s phone, to talk to _any_ other members of the Seven would be tantamount to treason, and there’s only one destination after that.

Mycroft is hurt. He hadn’t expected this from Lestrade. He gets up gets up stiffly from his chair and moves towards the door, fully intending to throw him out. But Lestrade is still trying to force the phone on him.

“Go on,” he urges. “He’s not like the others-”

“No!” Mycroft shouts. He knows temptation when he sees it, and he knocks the phone from Lestrade’s hand. It hits the polished floor with a crack, and spins away in giddy circles.

Lestrade lunges for it. Mycroft yanks him back.

“You went behind my back,” he hisses, furious. “I told you not to, but you did it anyway.”

“No! _He_ called _me_. There’s something going on, Mycroft. Something bad.”

“It’s none of your business.” Mycroft tries to sneer, but he’s breathing too hard.

“I know,” Lestrade says. “I’m only a Fallen. Which is why Uriel won’t tell me what it is. But he _will_ tell _you_.” He’s breathing hard too, his cheeks flushed from their tussle and his lips wet.

“No,” he says again, though less firmly. Things are moving too fast, making it hard to concentrate, to stay rational.

“I just told you there’s something serious going on,” Lestrade says, his normally warm brown eyes blazing. “For God’s sake, Mycroft - take the bloody call!”

Mycroft can’t listen to this. He’d close his ears, if he could. He’s heard too much already and his quick-silver mind is already racing. There’s trouble in Heaven. Trouble between the Seven. News of this kind is incendiary, and definitely not the province of the Fallen, or even Principalities. Simply knowing about it is enough to damn him. He has to find a way out of this.

“Mycroft …”

He’ll take the information to Gabriel. He didn’t seek it out. It’s not his fault it’s come his way.

“Mycroft!”

“No!” Mycroft has to shut Lestrade up, and quickly. He seizes the lapels of his nasty little mac instead and jerks him nearer.

He’s never kissed a mouth. When Mummy was alive, she occasionally permitted a dutiful peck on the cheek; Sherlock suffered them with ill grace only for as long as he was unable to avoid Mycroft completely. But a mouth … oh, a mouth. A mouth is a very different thing. It’s not passive, it’s active. It _responds_. Lips, teeth and tongue all moving in unpredictable combinations, saying things words cannot. Mycroft kisses Lestrade harder, and when Greg’s strong hand grips the back of his neck, it sends a shiver of pleasure down the entire length of his spine.

From the floor, a tinny little voice cheeps from Greg’s abandoned phone. They ignore it.  
 

__________

   
By the end of October, the weather has turned bitterly cold. Sherlock lights the living room fire but it does little to bring any real warmth to the flat. 221B was never meant to be a home for one and, more than fires or radiators, Sherlock needs John. (Two more days. Just two more, endless days.)

The first thing he notices when John finally appears in the doorway - apart from the way the torpor leaves him with a violent start, making his blood flow hot again - is that John’s had a haircut and is freshly shaven. He’s thinner than when he left, too, his features more defined, and he’s standing taller, holding himself erect as he walks into the room. He looks like a stranger and for the first time in his life, Sherlock has no idea what to say.

“See you kept the place tidy, then,” John mutters, scooping up an armful of newspapers from his armchair and depositing them on the coffee table.

“You … look well,” Sherlock offers, haltingly, right at the moment Irene Adler sends another of her infuriating texts.

John’s head snaps up.

“Do I?” he asks. It sounds like a challenge, and there’s something unreadable in his eyes. As if he’s shut something off, closed a door inside. “Good. Glad to hear it. I’m going for an interview tomorrow. Want to make a good first impression.”

“What job?” Sherlock demands, leaning forward. John doesn’t need a job. He’s Sherlock’s assistant. (That should be enough.) (Why isn’t it enough?)

“Surgery in Crouch End. A couple of mornings a week.” John must sense Sherlock’s displeasure, because he sighs heavily and says, “It’s all right. If I get it, I’ll still help you out. It won’t change anything.”

 

But it does. It changes everything. John still runs around London with Sherlock, ever ready with a sarcastic comment or his pistol, as the occasion demands, yet everything’s different. It’s on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to say something - especially when they’re investigating the case of the Elephant in the Room, because the metaphor is compelling - but every time, something stops him. He has a horrible feeling that something is fear.

At the end of November, John announces he’s got a new girlfriend - or rather, Sherlock overhears him telling Hudson about her. She’s a teacher (apparently) and she makes John laugh. Sherlock imagines the worst - some hideously dull housewife-in-waiting, someone normal, _nice_ \- but one evening, returning from an afternoon at the lab in Bart’s, he finds a tall, elegant brunette in the living room, engaged in very lively, almost confrontational, debate with John. John introduces her as Jeanette.  
 

__________

   
What the tabloids are calling ‘the Big London Chill’ persists, with the capital and surrounding areas experiencing frost after frost and self-styled weather experts predicting snow by Christmas. Gregory waxes lyrical about the hoar frost twinkling on the shrubs and grass in Mycroft’s small garden, and uses the plummeting temperatures as an excuse to sit far too close ‘for warmth’.

Not that Mycroft is complaining. He has two hundred and sixty-seven bodies on store in a hangar at Heathrow, and more coming in every day. The sub-zero temperatures will keep them nicely preserved without the need to commandeer a refrigerated hall. Given the sensitivity of the task with which Management have entrusted him, the less attention it attracts the better. He tells Gregory to put another log on the fire, and silently blesses his good luck.  
 

__________

   
On reflection, cajoling Sherlock into going Christmas shopping wasn’t a cunning plan, after all: it was asking for trouble. The kind of trouble that gets you not just thrown out of Selfridges but also a police escort home. John can still hear Sherlock’s scathing assessment of the well-meaning parents queuing up with their little ones to see Santa in his grotto, and the god-awful slanging match that ensued. And it’s not as if it got him anywhere. He didn’t even manage to buy a Christmas present for Jeanette, let alone Sherlock. Jeanette will be easy enough, he supposes - perfume or ear-rings should do the trick - but Sherlock? No idea. What exactly do you give a genius who sneers at everything? Watching Sherlock scan the Christmas Giving department was supposed to have provided an answer to that, but the idiot decided it was his bounden duty to disabuse small children of their belief in Santa and magic, then security was called. John’s supposes he should just be grateful neither of them was gifted with an ASBO. And at least they got Mrs Hudson a laptop.  
 

__________

   
John is not happy, but Sherlock is elated. His little diversionary tactic at Selfridges worked beautifully. John failed to buy anything personal or thoughtful for the boring teacher and will now be reduced to presenting her with something mundane. (It’s too much to hope he won’t even bother now. Being the kind of person he is, he’ll manage a rushed trip to the shops at some point, no matter how busy his new working schedule.) (Never mind. The point is, he’ll get her something obviously last minute, she’ll be less than charmed and the number of kisses under the mistletoe will be cut by half.)

Irritatingly, Sherlock’s unable to properly savour this small triumph because there’s someone on their doorstep when they get home: a female, hell-bent on boring him instead of letting him gloat. She’s young (a student, going by the frankly deplorable state of her hair and nails, not to mention her ridiculous shoes and clothing) and hopelessly in love. The details are tedious beyond belief, and Sherlock’s on the point of turning her away - even at the risk of John’s disapproval - when his phone buzzes. The noise provides a welcome distraction from her wittering (Pietro this, Pietro that, blah-blah, filter it out). Sherlock looks at the screen. (Text. From Mycroft.)

_Please afford Ms Barnicot your best attention. MH._

Sherlock thumbs in a rapid, angry response.

_Why?_

_Because I’m told Pietro Venucci was left-handed and the best sculptor the Slade has had in years. MH_

Sherlock catches his breath, thrilled. (Moriarty is back in business, killing Nephilim again!) He couldn’t have asked for a better Christmas present, and he clenches a fist in delight. A new case means new clues, taking him closer to knowing what the murders are about.

He drops his phone back into a pockets and seizes the Barnicot female by her elbows.

“Brilliant!” he cries, whirling her around. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! This is going to be fun!”  
 

__________

   
Mycroft awakes to the sound of muttering. He groans, punches his pillow, and tries to recapture sleep. It was a long, strenuous night, as they almost always are these days, but the lights are on now, both in the room and in his brain, and the wheels are turning.

He feels a hand settle on his naked shoulder.

“Sorry.” Gregory takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Mycroft rolls over to look up at him. Gregory’s large brown eyes are apologetic, his brow furrowed. Mycroft hauls himself up to sitting and dislodges the Fallen’s hand.

“I’ll have you know, I’ve always been an early riser,” he says, with a sniff.

A smile tugs at the corner of Gregory’s mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet. “I had noticed. And don’t think I’m not tempted, but I’ve got to run. Your brother’s solved that suspicious death at the Slade. It was murder, after all. Found the murder weapon in a bust of Maggie Thatcher, of all places. Papers are going to have a field day with that.”

Mycroft blinks. He’s having trouble keeping up with this conversation. “They are?”

Gregory leans in and presses a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your name out of it. But thanks. For persuading Sherlock to take the case. He’s been a bit funny recently. Funnier than usual. If it hadn’t been for you, I think he’d have told me to piss off.”

Mycroft inclines his head in acknowledgement. He doesn’t tell Gregory he felt obligated to pull strings. Nor does he tell him that he once met Pietro Vennucci outside a gay night club in Hoxton, and that if Vennucci hadn’t taken him under his wing, his life wouldn’t be what it is now.  
   
   
Thirty minutes later, Mycroft is showered, shaved and impeccably dressed. He’s about to phone for his car when he hears the metallic click of the letterbox. That is puzzling. It’s too early for the post; too early for advertising flyers. He goes downstairs to investigate and finds a crisp, white envelope lying on the mat. He picks it up. Quality stationery. Hand-written name and address. No stamp. He opens the door, and scans the street, but there’s no-one about apart from a milkman, the empty bottles he’s carrying back to the van jangling against one another in the cold morning air.

Mycroft shuts the door again. Retrieves a paper knife from his home office desk and slits the envelope open.

A pile of ripped up pieces of paper spills out - mostly black, grey and white, but with the odd splash of colour. The paper is thin, the colour poorly rendered. The worst kind of computer print-out. Mycroft wonders what he’s supposed to make of this. Then, amongst the jumble, one of the meaningless shapes resolves into a red varnished nail and the pad of a creamy thumb. Against it, biting into the skin, the links of a chain …

Mycroft scrabbles through the rest of the scraps of paper, looking for an explanation of some kind and, exasperated, he peers into the empty envelope. This is clearly a message of some kind; what is the point of a message if it’s not understood? The hairs on the back of his neck lift as, at last, he sees it. A seven-word sentence, scribbled in pencil in a spidery hand.

_She doesn’t work for you any more._

Mycroft stares at the words and an icy chill runs up his spine.  
 

__________

   
John could kick himself. Of _course_ Sherlock would ruin his attempt at holding a civilized Christmas drinks party. John’s not an idiot; he should have seen that one coming a mile off. Sherlock _always_ says unforgivable things to Molly, always has a depressing comment to make about Harry’s struggle with the bottle, and never fails to be offensive to any woman John’s mad enough to bring home. But the comments about Greg’s wife were new and Greg’s smile, already a bit strained, seemed to curdle. To be honest, John was surprised Sherlock remembered Greg was married. It’s the kind of useless information he’d ordinarily delete and Greg hasn’t mentioned his wife for months. But what really put the final nail in John’s party’s coffin was another bloody text from Irene Adler - a text that prompted Sherlock to sweep out into the cold and snow of the night. After that, people drifted away, and now here John is, alone with Jeanette - a situation he ought to be taking full advantage of. Instead, he’s worrying about the way Sherlock seemed to shut down completely after that text came through, as though whatever Adler had sent him was the worst news in the world.

Jeanette’s far from amused and John knows their relationship is skating on some very thin ice but, before he can do anything to rescue it, his phone rings loudly. It’s Mycroft. He says he’s with Sherlock in Bart’s mortuary and that Irene Adler is dead. John feels the usual kick to the gut, and the nauseous heave of protest against untimely death, but then something else rushes in, something more than a bit not good: warm relief, and a new sense of promise and possibilities. It’s as much his need for atonement for that as his concern for Sherlock that has John hurrying to obey Mycroft’s order to ensure Sherlock’s got nothing potentially harmful hidden away.

“Looks like he’s clean,” John reports back, after he and Mrs Hudson have had a thorough search. “We’ve looked in all the usual places. Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?”

Across the room, he sees Jeanette’s mouth pinch and she looks pointedly away.

“No,” Mycroft says. “But then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.”

“But I’ve got plans.”

Jeanette looks up at the ceiling and John’s almost sure he heard her teeth clench, but Mycroft is implacable.

“No,” he says firmly, and shuts off his phone.

John goes back to the sofa and Jeanette. The atmosphere between them is every bit as cold as the air out in the street.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, trying to close the gap between them.

Jeanette pulls back. “You know, my friends are so wrong about you,” she says. “You’re a great boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man. It’s heart-warming. You’ll do anything for him..”

“I’ll do anything for _you_ ,” John says, as she stamps into her shoes and goes to take her coat from the hook. “Just tell me what I’m not doing.”

“Don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!” she snaps.

She has her coat on now, and is buttoning it up, and suddenly John sees it. The similarity. The dark hair, the inches she is taller than him, even the cut and colour of her bloody coat. He’s an idiot in every possible way.

“I’ll call you,” he says lamely to her retreating back, although he already knows that he won’t. Jeanette’s not who he wants. She never has been.  
 

__________

   
The snow is still falling, muffling sound from the already quiet streets, as the taxi carries Sherlock back to Baker Street, Mycroft’s _Caring is not an advantage_ still ringing in his ears. Sherlock presses his hands together harder, digs the edge of his forefingers deeper into his lips. Not long ago, Mycroft was _encouraging_ his relationship with John, yet now he’s harping on loss and death and broken hearts. Sherlock sighs, watching the cab’s windscreen wipers sweep the glass clean of snowflakes, only to have them build up again. Why must Mycroft insist on boring him when Adler is being so delightfully interesting? The Woman is no more dead than he is. He knows her body: the nonsense about her safe code made sure of that. And now he knows _why_ : so that when her ‘corpse’ turned up, he would know it was a fake. But if she’s not dead, why send him her phone - the very phone she’d fought like a tiger to hang on to just four months ago? He almost feels warmly toward her. With this puzzle to occupy him, perhaps enduring Christmas without John won’t be so soul-destroying after all.  
 

__________

   
Christmas could have been worse, John’s sure. He could have gone to Harry’s and witnessed her consume vast quantities of alcohol, turn nasty, then vomit and groan her way through a monstrous hangover. Yeah, that would definitely have been worse. Marginally. But Christmas in 221B hasn’t been a picnic either, what with Sherlock not talking but sublimating his grief at Irene Adler’s death into obsessively trying to unlock her phone and playing mournful, never-quite-finished tunes on his violin. It’s driving John mad, and he grits his teeth as yet another string of notes rises and falls, then rises and falls again. He feels like rock on a beach, being slowly eroded by the restless, endless tide. He squares his shoulder and goes downstairs. His patience is at a very low ebb. He’s lost a girlfriend over this. He’s not an unreasonable man but enough is enough.

Sherlock is in the living room, standing in front of the window with his back to John and still playing the same snatch of tune. He doesn’t seem to notice John enter but breaks suddenly off to scribble additions to the sheet music on his stand.

“You composing?” John asks, casually, as if it didn’t matter, when in reality, it stings like salt in an already raw wound. He pulls on his coat. He needs to get out. He’s drowning in this. He needs air.

“Helps me to think,” Sherlock says, without looking at him.

John hesitates. He doesn’t like pain, but he won’t be a coward about this. It’s better to know. To know for sure. He sucks in a breath.

“What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but sets down his violin and, with a sudden burst of energy, starts talking about Adler’s phone again, and the number of hits on John’s blog. It hurts: John was a soldier; he knows diversionary tactics when he sees them.

Sherlock’s attempt at unlocking the phone fails, and he goes back to his music.

John goes out.

He’s barely out of the front door before a beautiful woman approaches him. It’s New Year’s Eve and the man he’s in love with is in love with someone else. He smiles at her suggestion they find a way to celebrate and thinks to himself, Why the hell not?  
 

__________

   
The sound of the front door slamming jolts Sherlock out of his contemplation of the game Adler’s playing. He moves closer to the window and peers down into the street. (John’s gone out.) (And he’s angry.) (Why is he angry?)

There’s a long, black car at the kerb and a woman, dark-haired and clad in black, steps out of a doorway to appear at John’s back. Sherlock sees him turn, then smile, as she engages him in conversation. His stomach clenches. (Not again! It’s only been a week since the ghastly Jeanette!) The jealousy, the possessiveness, are hot and instinctive, outpacing Sherlock’s reason. It’s only when John gets into the car that his rational brain catches up. She’s taking John to Mycroft. (Why? To give him the Caring Is Not An Advantage talk, too?) Sherlock grabs his coat and flies down the stairs.

 

An hour later, he’s moving much more slowly, his brain and body disconnected. Under his feet, the pavement feels far away and rubbery, as if gravity has malfunctioned and, at any moment, Earth’s pull might release him entirely to drift off into space.

_We’re not a couple._

He glances around, seeking an anchor, but Baker Street has taken on an alien look, the details of it bombarding him all at once, as if they were new. Different.

_We’re not a couple._

Everything _is_ different; the traffic noise more jarring, the light more bright and Sherlock can see hundreds of things he doesn’t remember ever noticing before.

_For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay._

Or, perhaps, everything is the same. The same as it was that first night, and nothing has changed. At least, not for John.

Sherlock’s almost surprised when he finds himself in front of 221B’s front door. He stares at it, willing it to be unchanged, but it’s not. There’s a scratch on the paintwork between the keyhole and the frame - a raw, pale gash down the black - and this one little detail snaps Sherlock’s entire universe back into shape. The door was forced. Someone has broken in. This is good. His mind is clear again. He’s back in control.

He steps into the hallway. Hudson’s flat door is ajar, her cleaning kit abandoned on the floor. His gaze moves to the stairs. There are scrapes on the wall paper - at just the right height for desperate, scrabbling fingernails - and smears of shoe polish near the skirting.

Sherlock’s numbness has gone. When he walks into 221B, he’s alert, ice-cold and deadly.

Hudson has been seated on a hard-backed chair in front of the fireplace and, behind her, the Christmas fairy lights twinkle incongruously on the mantelpiece as she trembles and fights to hold back tears. Sherlock raises his eyes from the hand on her shoulder that’s keeping her in place, over the pistol at her temple and up into the face of the Earthian responsible for both.

He recognises him immediately. It’s the American who, four months ago, had John on his knees with a gun at his head, and anger ignites white hot in Sherlock’s belly. He thinks of pain, and blood, and terror, and finds them all Good. _Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord_ , the old catechism from Universal Training said. Not today, it isn’t. Sherlock’s going to revel in this.

But the American’s henchmen are swiftly despatched and their leader incapacitated far too easily. It leaves Sherlock’s itch for violence annoyingly unscratched. For a moment, notions of forgiveness and compassion try to creep in, prompting him to take out his phone and call Lestrade, but then John walks in, and his fury is redoubled.

John fusses over Hudson and takes her downstairs. Lestrade finally answers his phone.

“We’ve had a break-in at Baker Street,” Sherlock tells him. He doesn’t need to look at the American to know he’s hanging on his every word, and it gives him the darkest of thrills. “Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance. Oh, no, no no, no no - we’re fine. No, it’s the burglar. He’s got himself rather badly injured. A few broken ribs, fractured skull, suspected punctured lung. He fell out of a window.”

The American looks wary as Sherlock ends the call, but nowhere near as frightened as he should. Sherlock drags him from the living room and into the kitchen, where he throws open the window. Now, at last, the Earthian understands. He struggles. Tries to dig his heels into the lino for purchase, as if he might be able to twist free but he can’t hear the words reverberating in Sherlock’s head.

_Mr Archer. On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson. One …_

The American’s body hits Hudson’s bins with a satisfying crash but sustains no real damage. Sherlock runs down to the back yard to find the Earthian already getting to his feet. He hauls him back to the flat.

_Two …_

This time, the American doesn’t get up again, and when Sherlock stoops over him, the sound of his breathing is noisy and harsh. Sherlock throws him over his shoulder and takes him back upstairs.

_Three._

Even from the kitchen window, Sherlock can see blood leaking from the man’s nose and ear. His skull has broken and Sherlock’s glad to have made good on that promise, at least, but inside he’s still seething, boiling with resentment at Heaven’s injunction against killing. He comforts himself with the knowledge that the man is badly hurt.

Half an hour later, an ambulance speeds the battered American away to hospital, its siren blaring. In the silence that follows, Sherlock can’t help envying him.

In time, broken bones mend and even punctured lungs can get better, but John’s not gay.  
 

__________

   
Mycroft is not drunk. He does not _get_ drunk. He has merely self-medicated with fine brandy, and now the veiled threat inherent in those tattered pieces of Irene Adler’s web-page and the spidery writing inside the envelope that held them has dwindled down to an annoying little chore that he’s in no doubt he’ll deal with easily tomorrow, or later this week. He feels almost calm, and would feel calmer still if Greg would hurry up and come home. Dinner is ready. A nice seasonal platter acquired from Marks and Spencer online and delivered in neat little boxes encased in cardboard sleeves sporting mouth-watering pictures of meat and vegetables and traditional figgy puddings. Mycroft has never tried figgy pudding. He examines the photograph again and licks his lips.

Greg blunders in an hour and another brandy later, muttering darkly about homicidal geniuses and unholy amounts of paperwork. Mycroft prises himself from his armchair and goes to meet him in the hallway, watching as he hangs up his horrible coat.

“I should get you a new one,” he says in a soft, blurry voice that hardly sounds like his own.

Greg pulls a face. “A new Sherlock? No, thanks. Already got all the Sherlock I can handle. D’you know what he did this time?”

Mycroft smiles, amused - no, charmed - by Greg’s tone of fond irritation.

“Coat,” he clarifies.

“What?”Greg turns to look at him properly and his eyes widen comically. “Mycroft … are you _drunk_?”

Mycroft attempts a scornful laugh, but it dissolves into a noise that’s more like a giggle.

As he struggles to regain a measure of dignity, Greg says “Good”, throws an arm around his shoulder and steers him back into the living. “Because I’m going to join you. Not _my_ fault Venucci wasn’t a Nephilim, not Neilson’s either, but that didn’t stop your brother tossing him out of a window, did it? And now I’m somehow going to have to tidy up after him.”

“Neilson?” Through the warm fog of his brandies, the name rings a vague bell in Mycroft’s head.

“American. C.I.A.”

Ah, now Mycroft remembers. The American who had mysterious business with Adler. And just like that, the relaxed feeling he’s been working on all evening disappears. He shrugs free of Gregory’s arm.

“You’ll have to excuse me. Help yourself to all the brandy you want. I’m sure you’ve earnt it. Sadly, there are things I need to do.”  
 

__________

   
For a man who’ll outlive God trying to have the last word, Sherlock can be annoyingly taciturn when it suits him. John hasn’t been able to get him to talk about Irene Adler’s miraculous resurrection at all. Then again, he’s not sure he even wants to. He only tried in the first place because it’s what friends do. Rib each other about girlfriends; egg each other on. If Sherlock doesn’t want to talk about Irene Adler, then fine. John will happily spend a few more days in blissful ignorance about the exact nature of his feelings for her.

As it happens, he gets almost six weeks. Then, just when he’s almost persuaded himself they’ve seen the last of her, she turns up again. He comes home after an insanely busy few days at work, looking forward to the weekend, and she’s there. Asleep, _in Sherlock’s bed_. John grips his Friday bottle of beer tightly as he looks down at her. The worst of it how _right_ it seems to see her there; how sweetly vulnerable she looks without make-up and with her hair falling loose about her shoulders. John darts a glance at Sherlock, standing silently beside him. His expression is one of total fascination. John takes a swig of his beer and escapes to the living room.

Sherlock follows him a few minutes later, with Irene close behind, Sherlock’s blue silk dressing gown swamping her slender form. As she takes Sherlock’s seat by the fire, John’s mind flashes forward to weeks, months - maybe even a lifetime - of this. He goes into the kitchen to make tea. If he has another beer now, he may never stop.

When he goes back to join them, Sherlock’s grilling Irene about the secrets she’s got on her phone. It turns into an elaborate dance. She’ll tell him so much and no more. He advances, trying to trick her. She sees it coming and steps to the side. She teases and sparkles, and the light in his eyes intensifies. He’s enjoying this. At last, he’s met someone who’s a match for him, not just intellectually but physically too, because there’s no denying she’s gorgeous. Six months of having to hide from people who would kill her for her secrets has done nothing to alter that.

“You’re rather good,” Sherlock say, his voice a low, breathy purr when she sees through his fake phone gambit.

“You’re not so bad,” she replies, with a smile.

It’s horrible, painful to witness, and John wishes he were anywhere else.

“Hamish!” he blurts out, because this is so bloody scary, he has to turn it into a joke. “John Hamish Watson. If you were looking for baby names.”

Both Sherlock and Irene turn to stare at him and now he feels like a complete and utter tit. He wishes he had gone for that second beer, after all, but it’s too late. He’s going to have to get through them flirting at each other stone cold sober.

Irene hands Sherlock her phone. She’s pulled something up onto the screen, and Sherlock frowns at it, his enchantment with the puzzle of it rolling off him in waves.

“What can you do, Mr Holmes?” Irene asks. “Go on. Impress a girl.”

She leans in towards him and time seems to slow down. The kiss she plants on Sherlock’s cheek takes forever in coming and lasts far too long. The big, dangerous moments are like that. John remembers the rattle of gunfire, the smell of seared flesh and the bright flash of pain. Some things are inevitable. Some bullets have your name on them. But before the flashback gets real enough to overwhelm him, Sherlock’s speaking and John clings to the sound of his voice. This isn't dying; this is just watching his flatmate fall in love. It won't kill him.

“There’s a margin for error, but I’m pretty sure there’s a seven-four-seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore,” Sherlock says, the words spilling out in rapid-fire deduction mode. “Apparently it’s going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true, but give me a moment. I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.”

John stares at him, amazed. Irene frowns.

“Oh, come on,” Sherlock says. “It’s not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look.”

His explanation is flawless, based on information he alone would have the foresight to file away in his head. He’s amazing, remarkable, brilliant, and John’s heart swells with pride.

“Please don’t feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing,” Sherlock says to Irene, as if readying John’s mind. “John’s expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language.”

Irene steps closer. “I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy. Twice,” she says.

John swallows. He may never expressed that thought aloud - thank God - but he’s certainly entertained it. His throat goes dry and he prays Sherlock doesn’t look at him because, if he does, he’ll know.

“John,” Sherlock says, startling him. “Please can you check those flight schedules? See if I’m right.”

John swallows uncomfortably and grunts a reply, grateful to have something to do. Heathrow. Tomorrow evening. Six thirty. He types in the key data and hits Search, trying not to hear Sherlock telling Irene he’s never begged for mercy in his life, nor Irene’s insistent _Twice_.

“You’re right,” John says, when the information pops up on his screen. “Flight double oh seven.”

Sherlock turns to him. “What did you say?”

“You’re right,” John repeats, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“No, no, no. After that. What did you say after that?”

“Double oh seven. Flight double oh seven.”

It seems to ping something in Sherlock’s brain. He doesn’t say what, but John’s pretty sure it’s nothing to do with Daniel Craig.

Meanwhile, a slow smile blossoms on Irene’s face. She looks like that cat the got the cream.

In John’s book, she has.

He thinks he could probably have accepted it with good grace, had Sherlock fallen in love with Molly. Or even Lestrade. They’re both good, kind people, and they care about him deeply. Plus, they’re people John actually likes, with whom he can identify. Sherlock falling for either of them would have been hard, obviously, but he could have done without ceasing to be Sherlock. Ceasing to be the Sherlock John knows, at least. But Irene Adler? Irene Adler is plastic, superficial and hard. All brain and no heart. If that’s what Sherlock wants, well, he’s not the man John thought he wanted. So, in fact, it’s fine. Perfectly fine. Let the two of them run off together, get married and populate the planet with hard-nosed, gorgeous little smart-arses. John’s beyond caring.

Almost.  
 

__________

   
Mycroft has a suit of armour in his dining room, installed by Procurement on the premise it would lend the right feeling of antiquity, of a long established Earthian family. He runs his hand down the gauntlet. The metal is cold against his palm, the suit grey and aesthetically unpleasing, and yet Mycroft wishes he could crawl inside it and hide.

_Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me._

With that one text, Moriarty has dashed all his hopes of advancement. He’ll never become a Dominion now. Not with the plane-load of dead Earthians Management has ordered him to make disappear grounded indefinitely. And his plan was so brilliant: use those very same bodies to foil a terrorist plot. Two birds; one stone. Had it worked, he’d have been hailed a genius on all sides. Now the best he can hope for is to avoid being reclassified as Fallen, and left here on Earth to rot.

Dread cold in his stomach, the hairs on the back of his neck raised in fear, he taps Gabriel’s number into his phone. Waiting for the Arch to answer, he feel physically sick.

“I was at prayer, Mycroft,” Gabriel says, his tone sharp-edged with reproach. “What do you want?”

Bile rises in Mycroft’s throat but he swallows it down. “There’s, uh, been a problem.”

“Problem?”

“With my solution to the, uh, problem.”

In the silence that follows, Mycroft cringes at his inarticulacy and repetition. His chances of convincing Gabriel he can redeem himself are slipping rapidly away.

“The terrorists planning to bring an aeroplane down have been told its passengers would already be dead. Consequently, neither MI5 nor the CIA will sanction the flight going ahead.”

“Told by whom?”

Mycroft hesitates. Moriarty is a Dominion and outranks him. Would naming him count as insubordination? Mycroft racks his brain for an alternative, but there is none. He braces himself. _Tell the truth and shame the Devil._

“Moriarty. James Moriarty.”

Another silence follows and Mycroft hardly dares breathe.

“James Moriarty,” Gabriel sighs. “A brilliant mind. Brilliant enough to see through your ingenious plan.”

The comparison stings all the more for being unfair and Mycroft leaps to his own defence.

“Not _so_ brilliant. I believe he had help - from Irene Adler. He certainly sent me a message to that effect.”

“Adler,” Gabriel echoes. For a moment, he sounds truly exasperated, but is soon all business again. “We have been evaluating her performance for some time. She is certainly ingenious, but brilliant? No. Even had she somehow obtained the details of your plan, she would never have understood it.”

 _She must have had help in her turn_ , Mycroft wants to argue, but without a credible name to offer, he knows his protest will sound like desperation. Who might have ..? _Oh_. Sherlock. Of course. Mycroft bites his tongue.

“I see you agree,” Gabriel says. “Your silence speaks volumes. We cannot afford to lose a mind like James Moriarty’s. He may have wandered from the path. It falls to us to help him walk in the light again. This task will be entrusted to you, and you may take all reasonable measures. Incarcerate him, if you must. Whilst he fails to see the error of his ways, his soul is in peril.”

“I will do what I can,” Mycroft promises, dizzy with relief. The task is a daunting one but, for now, neither he nor Sherlock will have to face the full force of Management’s ire.

“You are Heaven’s faithful servant,” Gabriel murmurs, and the familiar blessing is like a balm to Mycroft’s nerves. Perhaps there will be no need for armour or hiding. He closes his eyes and waits to be formally dismissed.

“One thing.” Gabriel’s tone is too casual, putting Mycroft instantly on edge again. “The Seven. Have any of them approached you? Uriel, perhaps?”

Mycroft remembers the phone call, remembers Gregory trying to force his mobile into his hand and the kiss that distracted him, then all that followed. Touch, and sweat, and heat. The unexpected pleasure to be had from flesh, and the comfort afforded by a living, breathing body, warm against own.

His glances up at the ceiling. At this very moment, Gregory’s upstairs, peaceful and trusting, sleeping off the exertion of an eighteen-hour shift.  
.  
“No,” Mycroft says, firmly. “I’ve heard from no-one.”

He half-expects the ground to open up beneath him and the fires of Hell to leap forth. But it doesn’t and they don’t.

“And Irene Adler?” he ventures.

Gabriel makes a little noise of irritation. “Get rid of her. Any way you can.”  
 

__________

   
The purr of a Jaguar XJ engine is a dead give-away. (Mycroft really should rethink his vehicle choice. It’s so recognizably his trademark that others - like Irene Adler - have started exploiting it.) Sherlock’s stomach twists at the memory of Irene tricking John, at the things he heard John say. When Mycroft’s henchmen arrive to take him down to the car, he lets them. What else is there to do? John’s gone out and Irene Adler keeps harping on about ‘dinner’. Sherlock would rather suffer Mycroft than encourage her all too obvious interest.

The Jaguar takes him to hangar at Heathrow - a massive grey box against the evening sky, although its interior is bright, and busy purposeful activity. (A step-up from Mycroft’s tired old Battersea metaphor, at least.) (What’s this one supposed to symbolize? Ascension? Ambition?) Outside it stands a Boeing 747 and the henchmen direct Sherlock towards its stairs.

At the bottom of them a familiar face is waiting - Neilson’s - and Sherlock has to fight down the urge to hurt the American all over again (he threatened John and has shown no repentance; forgiveness is out of the question) but somehow he manages to rein himself in and mount the stairs.

The 747’s cabin is not at all what he expected: it’s in almost total darkness (and when Mycroft’s showing off, he likes to be spotlit). It’s also pungent with a curious aroma, like embalming fluid, and Sherlock soon sees why: the seats are occupied by corpses. He even recognizes some of them: two young women and a dark-haired young man, last seen dead and gory on the Tilly Briggs. 

(What are these particular bodies doing here? And why does Mycroft have them?)

Stamford’s insistence that the Tilly Briggs deaths were connected to the body in the boot springs to mind. Sherlock switches on a light - and there he is: the lightly mutilated Nephilim from Southwark. Sherlock rapidly scans the other rows. (Are there others here? Other Nephilim?) (The middle-aged blonde slumped nearby was left-handed ...) (What is Mycroft doing with a planeful of ravaged corpses and dead Nephilim?)

“The Coventry conundrum,” Mycroft says, emerging from behind the curtains screening the plane’s First Class section. It’s so like him, to grasp at any straw implying status, and yet, in this half-light, in this eerily quiet company, Sherlock scarcely recognizes him. His face looks different, his eyes harder, his nose more sharp. (Like a rat.) (Rats. Plague. Sinking ships. ‘Smelling a rat.’ Betrayal. Deceit.) The associations flood Sherlock’s brain and, for the first time in his life, he finds himself doubting Mycroft’s unwavering Attachment.

“What do you think of my solution?” Mycroft asks. “The flight of the dead.”

Mycroft preens as Sherlock puts the puzzle pieces together: a terrorist plan to kill hundreds in a mid-flight explosion, thwarted by his brother packing the aircraft with dead bodies instead, leaving the terrorists unaware their plot had been foiled.  
“Neat, don’t you think?” Mycroft asks. “You’ve been stumbling around the fringes of this one for ages - or were you too bored to see the pattern?”

Sherlock remembers a couple of grieving little girls in his living room, barred from saying goodbye to their grandfather one last time; a man nursing an urnful of ashes he insisted were not those of his aunt. (Those were all months ago.) (Mycroft has been collecting bodies for months. Bodies robbed of livers and kidneys, corneas, hearts and spleens.) (He’s always had a flair for business but can he really be involved in trafficking Earthian organs?) (And, if he is, why has none of the evidence so far pointed that way?)

As he racks his brain for an answer, Mycroft’s expression takes a turn towards sour.

“This entire project is cancelled,” he says. “The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now. We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished. All it takes is one lonely naïve man, desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.”

“You should screen your defence people more carefully,” Sherlock says, absently because his mind is elsewhere. All this time, he’s trusted Mycroft; told him things that perhaps he shouldn’t have.

“I’m not talking about an MOD man, Sherlock,” Mycroft snaps. “I’m talking about you.” He bangs the point of his umbrella against the floor for emphasis. “The damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle and watch him dance …”

Sherlock can hardly believe his ears. Mycroft knows his feelings for John. Even if Sherlock is beginning to fervently wish he didn’t. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Absurd?” Mycroft raises his brows. “How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute, or were you really eager to impress?”

“I think it was less than five seconds.”

At the sound of Irene Adler’s, Sherlock turns and finds her behind him, dressed in a shiny black carapace of a dress, her hair piled up, her lips painted red. (She’s the polar opposite of John - John with his soft, muted jumpers and his soft, open face.) (How could Mycroft imagine, even for one minute that-?) (Oh! Mycroft is playing her!) Mycroft has seemed so different during this whole encounter that Sherlock actually forgot his devious brother is never just working on one plan, but on several. Whatever else may be going on, this scenario is a trap - to trick Adler into giving away to the pass-code to her phone - and Sherlock dutifully plays his part. He accompanies Mycroft and Irene back to the house in Smith Square and plays the pouting, easily taken in, sex-starved younger brother. He lets Mycroft disparage and Irene humiliate, and arranges his features to look both embarrassed and sad.

In the end, it’s easy. They succeed in convincing Adler that she’s won, and she’s so swept up by her victory that, in the end, she gives herself away.

“The Ice Man and the Virgin,” she says, comparing both Sherlock and Mycroft unfavourably with Jim Moriarty, and at this apparently random mention of things romantic and sexual, all the puzzle pieces fall into place in Sherlock’s head: her presence in his bed, her appropriation of his dressing gown and her endless invitations to dinner.

She’s not just interested in him; she’s in love.

Sherlock picks up her phone from where Mycroft’s left it on the table and taps in her code.

S. H. E. R.

I AM SHERLOCKED the phone flashes in confirmation, and he’s in. 

He hands the phone to Mycroft.

“If you’re feeling kind,” he says, “lock her up. Otherwise, let her go. I doubt she’ll survive long without her protection.”

She begs, but Sherlock’s unmoved. He leaves her to Mycroft’s tender mercies and gets one of Mycroft’s minions to drive him home.

John’s coat is on its peg when he gets there, but there’s no sign of him in the living room or kitchen (he must already in bed), so Sherlock settles into his chair by the fire, taking comfort in just knowing he’s present. His trust in Mycroft may have been shaken, but his faith in John is absolute, and he’ll sleep more soundly knowing that he’s here, and safe.

His phone buzzes a text alert.

I let her go. MH, it says and Sherlock’s stomach goes cold.  
 

__________

   
There is nothing wrong with mixing business with pleasure.

Mycroft sits back on his heels between Gregory’s spread legs, one hand on the crest of Gregory’s hipbone, the other cupping his testicles. He rolls the warm, full weight of them over his palm, drawing a small groan of pleasure from the Fallen’s lips. Gregory loves this, the slow prelude to sex, loves luxuriating in it, as if orgasm and ejaculation were the very last things on his mind. With him, there’s none of the frantic rush Mycroft expected of a sexual relationship. Instead, it’s all about indulgence, and sensation, and so, even though he himself is hard and eager to be expediting proceedings, Mycroft gives Gregory’s testicles another slow roll.

“Why do you suppose these are located outside of the body?” he asks, watching the fluid movement of them, the way the Fallen’s scrotal sack pulls thin and glossy, then relaxes back into crinkles and turns matt.

“Something to do with temperature, isn’t it?” Gregory’s voice is pleasantly strained, and Mycroft pushes his middle finger back to rub lightly at the spot directly over his prostate just to hear the Fallen’s vocal chords tighten still more. “For, uh - Christ, that’s good - sperm development.”

Mycroft tuts in disappointment.

“I _meant_ why do you suppose God in his wisdom didn’t think to tuck them safely within the pelvis and employ some other method of cooling? Or, better still, why did He not arrange spermatogenesis to be entirely unaffected by temperature. They’re so vulnerable, out here …”

He tightens his fingers, ever so slightly.

“ … exposed … defenceless …”

Gregory sucks in a breath and Mycroft looks up to find the Fallen watching him intently.

“ … so sensitive to impact and injury …”

Gregory clears his throat. “Mycroft-”

Mycroft laughs. “Oh, don’t be silly, Gregory. You don’t imagine I’d _hurt_ you, do you?”

“No.” The answer comes a fraction too late to be fully convincing. Gregory seems to realize it, because he starts to babble. “Of course, I don’t. We’re colleagues. Friends. _More_ than friends-”

“And yet I believe the Earthians have a saying,” Mycroft says, smiling, as he gives Gregory another, firmer squeeze. “Love hurts.”

Gregory gasps, and swallows.“Yeah. But we’re not, are we? Earthian.”

Mycroft leans down to kiss him. “Very true,” he breathes into his mouth, and slides his hand deeper between Gregory’s thighs, fingers pushing into the cleft between his buttocks. Gregory groans again, and his head tips back. Mycroft bites softly at the tender skin of his throat, just above his Adam’s apple.

“Shall I fuck you now?” he asks.

The word sends a shiver through Greg’s body that makes his buttocks clench around Mycroft’s fingers. Mycroft smiles to himself. He chose the word deliberately, constructed the whole sentence to tease and subvert Gregory’s expectations.

“Gregory. I asked you a question.”

Gregory’s grey head nods and his hips try to buck, but Mycroft holds them down. The Fallen loves the disparity between them, in terms of education and class and power. He loves the fact that Mycroft outranks him both on Heaven and on Earth. It makes it so easy for him to let go.

“Tell me,” Mycroft says.

“Yes,” Gregory groans. “Yes, Mycroft - fuck me. Now.”

Mycroft reaches for the lubricant and squeezes it out onto his hands.

“Say ‘please’.”

Gregory attempts a growl but it sounds more like a whimper. “Please.”

“My pleasure. Pull your knees up to your chest and hold them there.”

Gregory does as instructed, and the sight of him, folded in two, backside canted up and spreading open, ought to be ridiculous but instead it has Mycroft riding a hot pulse of lust. He slicks himself quickly. He’d push inside that waiting body straight away if flesh weren’t just fragile flesh and liable to tear. But he’s not patient. He has fingers inside Greg within seconds. Has him writhing and groaning and losing his hold in his knees in little more.

“Mycroft,” Greg grumbles, yanking his knees back into position. “I’m forty-seven, not twenty-seven. I can’t keep this position up for- Oh. Oh, Christ.”

Mycroft has removed his fingers and has the head of his penis against Greg’s anus. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe steadily but the contact is sending spark after spark racing up his nerves. Sometimes it’s hard to remember who all this carnal business is for. For _whom_. _Damn_. Mycroft lets his weight sink him into Greg’s body.

“Oh, Christ, Mycroft … _yes_.” 

Greg’s legs wind around his waist, hot and sweat-damp, and Mycroft start to move. Slowly at first. A tilt of the hips, no more. It pushes him in a little deeper, changes the angle and Greg moans. Mycroft covers his open mouth with his own, thrusts his tongue into the heat of it in time with the slow pump of his hips. Greg undulates beneath him, and his legs grip more tightly every time Mycroft thrusts.

Mycroft kisses him harder, until he runs out of air, and his mouth slides wetly over Greg’s cheek. He kisses Greg’s face - his nose, cheek and jaw; nuzzling his way along the line of it until he reaches his ear. Greg makes a warm noise of contentment when he sucks on the lobe, and it makes Mycroft decide the leisurely approach has gone on too long. He thrusts the point of his tongue right into Greg’s ear and pistons his hips hard.

Greg bucks, and the hands on Mycroft’s shoulders turn into claws, nails digging into the skin. One of his legs around his waist slips off. Mycroft feels it bend and press, hot and firm, against his side. Greg has placed his foot flat on the bed to gain the leverage necessary to do some thrusting of his own and his rhythm is every bit as hard and fast as Mycroft’s.

It’s getting harder to breathe, harder to keep track of the sensations and control them. Mycroft has to tip his head back to suck in air but Greg keeps moving, keep pushing up and dragging down, and the pleasure is almost unbearable.

“Close,” Greg says, his voice a rasp of gravel. “So bloody close. Mycroft, you are … I …”

His hands are between them now and his fingers teasing at Mycroft’s nipples.

Mycroft grabs the hands from his chest and shoulder and pins them down. Thrusts hard, then again. Greg shudders, bucks up and goes limp. Mycroft thrusts again and is lost to the shattering bliss of his orgasm.

“Mycroft. Mycroft! Hate to say it, but you’re heavier than you look.”

Mycroft comes back to himself with Gregory wriggling awkwardly beneath him and trying to shove him off. Their skin is sticky with sweat - and other unsavoury sources of moisture - which makes disengaging ungainly, to say the least. Mycroft rolls onto his back and gropes under the bed for tissues and antibacterial lotion, then pushes up into sitting to clean himself off. Gregory - who’s clearly been on Earth long enough to have gone native - just lies on his back, wet with ejaculate front and back.

“I trust that was satisfactory?” Mycroft says, cleaning his hands with fastidious attention to ensure the lotion gets right down under his nails.

Gregory rolls onto his side and kisses his hip. “Heavenly.”

With his grey hair, soft expression and dark eyes, he looks like a child’s drawing of a wolf. A wolf cub. A puppy.

Mycroft smiles down at him. “I’m glad.”

Gregory wriggles up to sitting too. “ _And.._?” he prompts.

“Yes.” Mycroft nods. “Very acceptable. As always. Thank you.”

Gregory laughs and Mycroft allows himself to be pulled into a kiss. Gregory likes to ‘snuggle’ afterwards but today they have limited time.

Right on cue, Mycroft’s alarm clock (an old-fashioned, silver thing with great clanging bells that Procurement decided an Earthian of his type would prefer) goes off. Gregory grumbles and tries to hold on, but Mycroft eases out of his embrace.

“I have a meeting,” he says, leaving the bed to retrieve his dressing gown. “And a busy, busy day. I doubt I’ll be home before midnight.”

Gregory pulls a regretful face as Mycroft knots his belt. “Okay. I suppose. Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

Mycroft was waiting for this. He picks up one of the odd little toys Gregory bought online and flicks its switch. “Well, since you mention it,” he says, as the thing buzzes away merrily, “I do have one little job for you.”

Gregory’s eyes light up and he licks his lips. “Yeah? What?”

Mycroft tosses him the toy. “A little police work.”

Gregory looks crestfallen. “Lucky me.”

“Now, now,” Mycroft says, arching a brow and assuming his best reproving face. “Don’t be like that. I think you’ll enjoy this one.”

“Will I? How’s that? Only thing I’d enjoy with the day job just now is improving my clear-up rate.”

Mycroft ducks down to kiss him briefly and smiles. 

“Then this is your lucky day. As you know, I have … certain resources at my disposal. They have not been idle and, as a result, I have several leads relating to James Moriarty’s current location. I want you to arrest him under for whatever reason you choose and take him into custody. As soon as he’s behind bars, I’ll take over. That should do wonders for your productivity.”

Gregory switches the buzzing off and stumbles out of bed, scrubbing at his hair. He pads around to where Mycroft is standing and looks up at him.

“So, let me get this straight. You want me to pick him up, charge him with abduction, murder, attempted murder, possession of explosives, fraud and extortion, then hand him over to you.”

“Got it in one,” Mycroft replies. “Deal?”

Gregory scratches the side of his neck thoughtfully. “And will we get to spend all Saturday morning in bed?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, even as the flattery in Greg’s bargaining sends a wave of warmth washing over him.

“We will,” he says solemnly, then adds, with a twinkle, “And perhaps I’ll let you show me what that strange shaped rubber thing is for.”

Greg’s face splits into a delighted grin.

“Deal,” he agrees emphatically.  
 

__________

   
If John will insist on going on five-day training courses (in Bristol of all places) ( _Bristol_!), then he can’t complain if Sherlock fills up the fridge with necrotic tissue and spreads his chemistry set all over the kitchen. Perhaps it will serve as a lesson, and make him think twice about deserting his post in future, because there was no reasoning with him. He insisted he needed the CPD credits (whatever they are) and set off for Paddington, despite Sherlock’s pleas he stay.

“I could use a doctor’s eye,” he’d argued but John was unmoved, saying, “You’ve probably already got one. Try that jar in the microwave.”

Remembering the conversation, Sherlock gives the clamp holding his boiling flask in place over the Bunsen such a vicious twist, the neck of the flask breaks, raining tiny glass splinters down amongst the used mugs and crumb-sprinkled plates.

_Ahhhhh!_

Sherlock tears his phone from his pocket and glares at it. The breakage and John’s absence have already raised his blood pressure unpleasantly; the last thing he needs are more of Adler’s stupid texts. He thought beating her might have put an end to her silly games, but apparently not.

 _Hello, Mr Holmes_ , the new text says.

 _Aren’t you dead yet? SH_ , Sherlock texts back.

_Your brother’s certainly been working on it. I need your help._

_You should have thought of that before teaming up with James Moriarty. SH_

_Oh, he’s not so bad._

_Then go to him for help. SH_

_I can’t. Your brother again, I’m afraid. You’re the only one I can turn to. Please._

_Why should I? SH_

_Because I have information. Information you want. Information you need._

_What kind of information? SH_

_Not by text. In person._

_Where? SH_

_If you’re as good as you think you are, you’ll work it out. See you soon, Mr Holmes._

 

The secret service man on the plane to Istanbul is so painfully obvious that Sherlock almost decides to ignore the threat he poses. Almost. As soon as they’re through baggage reclaim, Sherlock mills around in the crowd until he’s sure he’s lost the man, then disappears into the toilets to change. He emerges clad in the best approximation of traditional Middle Eastern clothing he was able to achieve at such short notice: black robe and head-dress, loose black trousers and black boots. It will have to do.

He finds Adler, unsurprisingly, working in the most notorious brothel in town. All highly illegal, of course, and thus highly paid. It costs him a hundred lira just to get through the front door and another hundred to gain admittance to her room.

It’s a shock to find her conservatively dressed in hijab and shapeless, long, black dress. Especially as she’s lounging on a gaudy, silk-draped bed Scheherazade would be proud of.

“Sherlock, dear!” she purrs, comes over to embrace him. “You may _actually_ be as good as you think you are.”

“Meanwhile you, Irene,” he returns coolly, “are definitely every bit as good as I think _you_ are. What do you want?”

“Tea?” Irene gestures toward an elaborate arrangement of glass and silver jugs and cups. “Coffee? Wine?”

“I’m not one of your pathetic clients.”

“All right,” she says, dropping the I-Can-Make-Your-Every-Fantasy-Come-True tone in favour of something more business-like. “I told you. There are people after me. People who would kill me.”

“ ‘People’,” Sherlock scoffs. “You have far more dangerous enemies than that.”

“Like your brother, you mean,” she says. “Oh, Sherlock - you’ve chosen the wrong side. You should hear Moriarty out. He’s eager to work with you. Says you’re the only one who-”

“Not interested.” Sherlock turns on his heel. “Good-bye, Miss Adler.”

She flies at him, and grabs his arm. He can feel the desperation in her grip. Slowly, reluctantly, he turns back to look at her.

Her eyes are wide and frightened, the lines around her mouth tight.

“Please, Sherlock. _Please_.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I have information you need. On John Watson.”

Heat floods Sherlock’s body at the mention of John’s name, but is quickly replaced by a sickening, anxious chill.

“Tell me.”

“First, get me out of here. Those men are coming, Sherlock. If they catch me, I’m a dead woman.”

The words are barely out of her mouth, before an explosion of noise erupts out in the hallway: doors crash open, wood splinters, and the air is jagged with the sound of screaming. Sherlock grabs Adler by the hand and pulls her toward the window, snagging one of the silk throws from her bed as he goes. It’s thick and good quality; it will serve as a rope. He ties one corner to a nearby radiator, and tosses the length of it out of the window.

Adler shoves past him. “Ladies first, I think.” She grabs the twisted throw, and uses it to drop down to the balcony below. Sherlock quickly follows.

The room the balcony leads out from is empty, the door locked. Sherlock kicks it open, and hauls Adler inside. They run across it and out into the hallway - where three men, in clothings very similar to Sherlock’s, are waiting. Two with guns, one with a massive, curved sword (and there’s something very worrying about that sword).

“Stupid! Stupid!” Sherlock rages, as his hands are fastened behind his back with a plastic tie. (The noise upstairs was just a diversion.) A cloth bag is pulled down over his head, and a jab to his back with the barrel of a gun tells him to stop talking.

They’re bundled down the hallway, out of the building and into a waiting car. (Bench seating, long wheelbase, probably a Landrover Defender given utilitarian feel of the interior.) The car pulls away with a jerk, throwing Adler against Sherlock’s side. They shuffle quickly apart.

The journey lasts for hours - hours that turn into days - and, the whole time, they remain hooded and bound, except for all too infrequent stops for food, water and urination. Sherlock notes grit underfoot at some of the stops, tarmac at others. When he starts to notice a pattern to the change between the two, he realizes all is not quite what it seems.

“We’re going round in circles,” he hisses to Adler, when the car bounces noisily along a particularly rough stretch of road. (Again.)

“Still in Turkey,” she hisses back.

(It makes no sense.) (If these men - or the people they work for - want Adler dead, why didn’t they simply shoot her?) (Is this about making her suffer?) Sherlock can imagine it might be. (She hurts and humiliates her clients, then blackmails then.) This could be payback, except … Something tugs at his brain. He takes a deep breath, trying to concentrate, only to get a noseful of the bag over his head. It smells of rice. (Baldo rice. Very Turkish.) He sits up straighter, buzzing with the thrill of discovery. The _bag_ smells Turkish but their kidnappers don’t. Sherlock rolls his eyes at his own failure to observe. The man who tied his hands, for all his exotic clothing, smelt of nothing unusual at all - not even garlic - but _he should have_. His shampoo was Head &Shoulders, his toothpaste Sensodyne Cool Mint and there was a faint whiff of Floris’ No 89 about him. Sherlock would recognize that scent anywhere. It’s what Mycroft wears.

The thought is like a bolt of lightning. This is Mycroft’s doing. (No wonder the sword was worrying. Mycroft hasn’t done his homework. It’s Chinese, not Middle Eastern.) Sherlock grins to himself, and starts working on a plan.

When the time comes, the following night, the plan works beautifully. Mycroft’s men were clearly given one target and one target only. Their focus is all on Adler as they force to her knees, making it easy for Sherlock to even the odds a little. The man with the incongruous sword falls first, and Sherlock seizes the weapon as Adler, who’s been surreptitiously watching him, begs to be allowed to use her phone to send her loved ones a final goodbye.

(At last a use for her tasteless text alert sound!) It tells Sherlock she’s ready and, as the man with the rifle takes the phone and levels his gun at her, Sherlock steps forward, the Chinese war sword machete in hand. The man with the rifle nods grimly and steps back.

Adler turns to look up at Sherlock at the moment he raises the sword.

“When I say, run,” he says. “Run!”

He whirls around, slicing the blade clean through the rifleman’s neck, then whirls again, cutting one of the other kidnappers pistol hand off at the wrist.  
Adler runs. Jumps into the Landrover and revs the engine. Sherlock leaps in beside her and they roar away, bullets pinging uselessly in their wake.

It seems Adler knows their location well. She takes side tracks and short-cuts at break-neck speed, and soon shakes off their pursuers. But she still takes no chances, only stopping when they’re almost out of fuel. She engages the handbrake with a fierce scrape of metal over metal and heaves a deep sigh of relief. In the distance, Sherlock can see the domes and minarets of Istanbul against a lilac, dawn sky.

“Well?” he says.

Adler frowns, then laughs. “Oh! John, you mean. Dear old, I’m-not-gay Doctor Watson.”

“I helped you,” Sherlock reminds her.

She arches a brow and gives him a wicked, incredulous smile. “And you expect me to play fair?”

“Yes. I took your pulse, remember.”

She narrows her eyes at that, then huffs. “Oh, all right. He wants you. But he’ll never tell you that, because he’s got a million hang-ups, the silly little man. He’d be so easy to blackmail …” Her eyes take on a far-away look, and Sherlock can see her working out exactly how she’d do it.

He’s glad of the distraction. It gives him time to cover his surprise. He was sure she was going to tell him John’s a Nephilim and start bargaining for his life.

“The last time I heard him express an opinion on the subject,” he says coldly, “he was insisting he wasn’t gay.”

“That’s because he _isn’t_. He’s a repressed bisexual, clinging to the wreckage of his notions of Right and Wrong like a drowning man. He isn’t going to make the first move. It’ll have to be you. But that should be easy enough - after all, he’s a soldier at heart, and he sees you as his commanding officer. Give him an order. Tell him to take his clothes off and he will.”

It’s far too easy to picture. John’s eyes going wide, his breath catching, and then his hands moving slowly up to the shirt button at his throat … The pulse in Sherlock’s groin thuds and his penis starts to fill.

“Take off your clothes,” Adler says, and there’s such steel in her tone, Sherlock’s sure it must be her dominatrix voice.

“Yes, yes,” he snaps, totally flustered. “I know how to say it.”

Adler laughs. “No, Sherlock. I said: Take. Off. Your. Clothes.”

He looks up in confusion. She’s holding a gun.

“It was in the glove pocket of the Landrover,” she says. “Which was lucky because if I’m to get out of Istanbul safely, I’ll need to dress as a man.” She gestures impatiently for him to start stripping. “Looks like I beat you in the end, Sherlock Holmes.”

She lets him keep his pants and socks, and tosses him the female garb she’s was wearing, so at least he’s decent. Then she climbs up into the Landrover again and starts up the engine.

“Thanks for everything, dear!” she cries, throwing the car into gear. “Especially the clothes. And because I like you, I tell you this: _I owe you_!”  
 

__________

   
Mycroft Holmes is a bastard - a complete and utter bastard. The words are like a mantra in John’s head as he stomps up the stairs to the flat. One syllable per stair, underlined by the thump of his feet.

Now there are just two steps to go, and John hesitates, hugging Mycroft’s plastic-bagged files on Adler to his chest. Two small steps, and one giant leap into lying and treating Sherlock like a fragile, younger brother instead of like a full-grown man. And yet John _wants_ to lie. It’ll be better for Sherlock to think Adler’s safe in America than to know she’s cold in the ground: he liked her. Mycroft just said it: she was one woman who mattered.

John blows the air from his lungs, fills them again and mounts the last two stairs, determined. Sherlock must never know the truth: John couldn’t bear to watch him grieve.

He manages it, too. Sells the lie to Sherlock almost without blinking. Even with Sherlock looming over him. Even with Sherlock so close that John can feel the heat of him, smell the sharp, Sherlock-scent of his skin. Even when John’s knees feel as if they’re turning to jelly and his belly twists with lust.

It’s a bloody relief to get out of there. Handing over Adler’s phone and risking Mycroft’s eternal displeasure was a small price to pay to fast-forward to the bit where John could get away. He throws Adler’s files down on the table at which Mycroft is still sitting and gets the hell out of Speedy’s as well. Between them, the Holmes brothers are driving him mad.

It’s still before eleven. The Regent is almost empty and John gets served straight away. He takes his pint off to a table in the corner in the lounge, avoiding eye-contact with anyone. He’s not in the mood to chat.

He sips from his beer steadily, without really tasting it. He’s done the right thing, he’s sure. Almost sure. No - now he can think for himself, without Mycroft machinating, or Sherlock getting too close, he’s not sure at all. Because there’s no getting away from the fact he’s just lied. To Sherlock. And not because he didn’t want to break Sherlock’s heart but because he couldn’t have dealt with watching it happen.

He looks at what’s left of his pint, and realizes he’s got two options: finish his beer, order another and get very, very drunk; or go back to the flat and tell Sherlock the truth. All of it.

He leaves his drink unfinished and goes home.  
 

__________

   
Adler’s phone in hand, Sherlock stands by the window, looking down into Baker Street, and waiting. (John lied.) (John hates lying.) (He’ll be back - soon - wanting to set the record straight.)

Sherlock tosses Adler’s phone into the air and catches it with a wry laugh.

“The Woman,” he murmurs. “ _The_ woman.”

He wonders what she’d say if she could see him now. She gave him her best advice - the advice of a professional seducer, no less - and has he acted on it? No. He meant to. Every day since returning from Turkey, he’s steeled himself to do it - he’s even consulted the odd website to ensure he’d know what to do _after_ he’d ordered John out of his clothes - but every day, his courage has failed. John, in pyjamas and slippers; John, reading the newspaper across the breakfast table; John grumbling about experiments and what Sherlock keeps in the fridge: they’re all too precious to lose on the gamble that he’d comply. Because he might not. This way, at least, Sherlock can hang on to the delicious possibility that one day he _might_.

He drops Adler’s phone into his filing cabinet and closes the drawer.

Downstairs, the door from the street opens and shuts, and Sherlock hears John’s footsteps on the stairs. He closes his eyes, letting himself believe that today will be the he’ll actually say it (Take off your clothes) and that John will he’ll strip himself naked - not coyly, or meekly, but with intent, and Sherlock will finally get all of him: every freckle and mole; every vein, bump and bruise; his skin and his scars. Everything that John is.

“Sherlock.”

The sound of John’s voice chases the fantasy away, and when Sherlock opens his eyes again, he’s confronted with the real thing. John. His coat and hair wet from the rain. Rivulets of water running down his face.

John wipes them away and clears his throat.

“About Irene Adler,” he says. “She’s, uh, not in America. On a witness protection scheme.”

Sherlock does his best to look surprised. “No?”

“No.” John looks down at his feet and rocks back on his heels, then sucks air in noisily through his teeth. “She’s dead. Really dead. Mycroft checked. Some terrorist cell, apparently …”

He looks stricken, anxious at the hurt he imagines he’s inflicting, and Sherlock could kiss him for it. He doesn’t, but he must be smiling because suddenly John’s wearing his most horrified Not Good expression.

“Sherlock - did you hear what I just said?” he asks. “Irene Adler isn’t in America. She’s dead. I lied.”

“Why?”

John shrugs. “Probably made one too many enemy. In her line of work-”

“I meant: why did you lie about it?”

John flushes and Sherlock’s hopes rise, despite everything he does to stop them.

“John …”

“Because I knew you liked her!” John cries, and he stalks off across the room. (Even his back looks angry.) “Idiot that I am, I thought her being dead might actually upset you! I was worried about your feelings, you cock!”

“No,” Sherlock says slowly, hope and adrenalin fizzing in his belly and under his skin. “That’s not why. You’re still lying.”

John clenches his fists and stalks back. “I am not lying. She’s not in America. She’s dead. Killed by terrorists in Karachi, according to your brother. And you know what? I’m glad!”

He’s right in front of Sherlock now, quivering with anger. And something else. Something so wonderful that it nearly makes Sherlock brave enough to speak Adler’s words but now he’s quivering, too.

“Why would that make you glad?” he asks, throat tight, eyes locked on John’s.

“Because she nearly got us killed. Because she drugged you, and tricked you and because I … ” His gaze drops from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth. “Because I … Oh, bugger this!”

He grabs Sherlock’s shirt-front and yanks him forward. The next thing Sherlock knows, John’s up on his toes, gripping him by his upper arms, and they’re kissing. Or rather, John’s kissing and Sherlock’s just doing his best to keep up. John’s mouth is hungry, fierce, and - oh, God - it’s John’s mouth, and Sherlock has wanted it for so long that in no time at all he’s dizzy, aching and hard.

“Take your clothes off,” he says, when at last they break for air, but it comes out as a hoarsely whispered plea, not a command.

John’s hands tighten on his arms.

“How about _you_ take _your_ clothes off?” he growls and grinds his hips into Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s legs turn to water.

“All right,” he says, breathlessly, and raises both hands to unbutton his shirt.

John snorts and bats Sherlock’s hands back to his sides. When Sherlock looks at him in confusion, he sees he’s laughing and rolling his eyes.

Sherlock doesn’t understand. “But you said …” he says, “and I want to.”

He tries again but John grabs his wrists.

“Not here, you idiot,” he giggles. “Or you’re going to give Mrs Hudson one of her turns and we don’t want to do that.”

“No,” Sherlock says, soberly, but his heart is doing cartwheels around the inside of his chest, because John didn’t say ‘No’, he said ‘Not _here_ ’. Sherlock smiles at him hopefully. “My room?”

John grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The distance between the living room and Sherlock’s room has never seemed so long, because of the constant need to stop and kiss. John pulls Sherlock into an embrace near the kitchen doors, and tugs his shirt free of his trousers. Then Sherlock realizes it would be stupid to walk past the fridge without kissing again, and taking advantage of the pause to pull off John’s rain-spattered coat. John’s enthusiastic response includes stripping off Sherlock’s jacket and tossing it onto a chair. They’re part-way down the hall when Sherlock’s back hits the wall with a thud, and John’s pressed up against him, mouth on his throat, hands in his hair.

“Are we really going to do this?” he asks, his voice as ragged with lust as Sherlock’s beginning to feel.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and just the thought of it makes him roll his hips into John. The pressure on his erection takes his breath away. “Yes, John - _yes_.”

John’s nostrils flare and, for a moment, his gaze loses its focus.

“Just checking,” he says, and rolls his hips too, making Sherlock harder still. “I was beginning to wonder if I was going mad.”

“No. You’re going to my room.”

John darts a glance to his right. “Looks like we’re almost there.”

Sherlock smiles. “Thank God for that.”

The doorway is too tight as they squeeze through it together, but the room too large when they stumble apart, the comfortable intimacy of the darkened hallway evaporating in the glare of grey light pouring in through Sherlock’s window. For a several long seconds, they stand awkwardly just looking at one another, unsure what to do next.

John’s the first to gather himself. He marches the few paces it takes to reach to the door and shuts it with a loud click, then comes back to join Sherlock by the bed. He eyes it like a surgeon preparing for the first incision; like a general considering the best way to engage battle.

“John?” Sherlock asks, stupidly nervous.

“Have you ever done this before?” John asks, still looking at the bed.

“No. Have you?”

John looks up at him, and shakes his head. “Not with a man, no. Oh, God - this is going to an almighty cock-up, isn’t it?”

“I believe that’s the plan,” Sherlock says, attempting a grin to lighten the mood. “But don’t worry. I’ve done my homework. The internet is a fantastic resource for this sort of thing. I apply lubricant to you, put a condom on myself and then apply lubricant to that as well. Oh, and there’s also some stretching required, though opinions vary as to how much and how many fingers you’ll need. I thought we’d just see how it goes.”

John swallows and pulls himself taller. “Right. Better get undressed, then.”

He starts by sitting down on the edge of the bed to unlace his shoes but Sherlock finds it impossible to stand by and watch. He kicks off his own shoes, sending them half-way across the room in his hurry, then drops to one knee to pull off John’s socks. He’s waited more than a year for this but these last few moments are excruciating. John seems surprised by Sherlock's assistance at first, but quickly recovers and reaches out to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt.

Taking off shirts seems a very good idea, and Sherlock immediately tries to rid of John of his as well. Their arms tangle, their fingers fumble, and one of John’s buttons gets torn off in the ensuing struggle. John watches it bounce onto the floor with a nervous laugh.

“If you think I’m trusting you with my flies after that,” he says, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, “you’ve got another think coming ...”

Sherlock looks down at his hands. John's right: they seems to have developed a tremor to rival John’s at its worst. He gets to his feet and steps back, leaving John to take off his own clothes whilst he removes his.

When he turns back again, John is completely naked and the sight of him roots Sherlock to the spot. John’s body is strong, compact and in perfect proportion - just as Sherlock expected - but there’s a soft vulnerability to the curves of flesh over his muscles, and a terrifying reminder of his mortality in the scarring at his shoulder. It’s too much. Sherlock has to look down - and immediately finds himself staring at John’s penis instead. (God, John’s _penis_.) Sherlock’s mouth waters, and the pulse in his own groin thumps.

“Jesus,” he hears John breathe after long moments of staring. “Look at you.”

Sherlock raises his gaze. John’s eyes have darkened, and are travelling over him shamelessly in return.

Sherlock takes a step closer, then another.

“Don’t just look,” he says. “Touch.”

Time seems to stand still. John blinks. Smiles. Blinks again. Reaches out a hand …

Sherlock thinks he ought to be ready for it landing on his naked hip, but he’s not, and he jumps at the sensation as if it were an electric shock.

“Okay?” John asks.

“Okay,” Sherlock nods hurriedly. (Electric is good.)

“And if I do this?” John’s right hand lands on Sherlock’s other hip, then snakes around to cup one of Sherlock's buttocks and pull them flush up against one another.

The full-body contact makes Sherlock inhale sharply and tingle right down to his toes. He wraps an arm tight around John’s waist, and his best to keep breathing. For what seems like ages, that’s all he can do because, John’s started to caress him and his mind has gone blank. He can’t think, only feel. John’s hand runs down his spine, and he arches, then arches again at the glancing friction the movement delivers to his penis. John kneads his buttocks and he starts to shake. John rubs lightly at his nipples and he lets out a cry.

The sound is so needy and unexpected, it jolts him out of his daze. It sparks a memory, too. _The_ memory. The one he’s scarcely dared let himself remember.

_I’d want you to touch me all over. Like you meant it. Like you couldn’t live without me._

Sherlock can do this. (Do _that_.) He seizes John by the shoulders and backs him up against the bed. Pushes until John falls backwards, then climbs on top of him and when, John’s mouth opens in surprise Sherlock covers it with his own, kissing him hard as he curves his body into him, until they’re belly to belly, erection to erection, and John’s the one shuddering and making soft sounds of want. Sherlock rocks his hips, bites at John’s throat. Tries to ignore the roaring demon of his own desire but when John pushes up against him, it’s impossible. The desire takes over and he kisses John harder, rocks his hips faster, pushes down, down and further down still, forcing John’s legs to part beneath him.

“Lubricant,” John says, tightly. “Condom. Stretching.”

Sherlock nods. He takes a breath, and reaches across as far as he can to open his bedside table’s drawer. The condoms and lubricant are right at the front, thank God. Sherlock pulls them out and goes back to kneeling between John’s thighs.

Even though his hands are trembling with impatience, getting the condom on is easier than Sherlock expected - even with John watching him and biting his lip. The lubricant makes a disgusting noise escaping the tube but, even through the latex, it feels wonderful as Sherlock smooths it on. He’s been overly generous with it, he realizes, when he’s finished, but that’s all right: there’s still enough on his fingers for John.

Sherlock kisses him again, then wriggles back between his legs to give himself more room. John lies spread out before him, not moving, still with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His penis has flushed a dark purplish red and it twitches under Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock runs his open palm up the solid heat of it, and John moans; he wraps his hand around it and John bucks. He gives it a long, slow stroke down and back up, and John takes to cursing.

“ _Christ_. That’s-that’s bloody wonderful, Sherlock.”

His obvious pleasure goes straight to Sherlock’s groin and his blood starts to roar. He shoves his free hand between John’s legs and gropes blindly at the cleft between his buttocks, his eyes never leaving John’s face. He wants everything. All of it. All of John’s body. All of his emotion. Everything. His fingers find their target and he plunges one in.

John yelps and Sherlock pulls it out again with a start. John’s body has gone tense - not just tight with nerves or anticipation but _rigid_.

“Fuck,” John says, breathing hard.

(The internet said nothing about this.) (Stupid! Stupid! Should have done more research!)

“Breathe,” Sherlock says because that’s the only solution he can come up with. (Deep breathing relaxes muscle tissue and John has to relax, he _has_ to!) He gives John’s penis a gentle, encouraging pull.

John sucks in a breath on the upstroke and blows it out again on the down, but it does nothing to relax him. Sherlock tries again, and again, but it’s no good: John’s body won’t let him in. 

Sherlock lets go of John’s penis, removes his hand from between his legs and sits back, bewildered. (What now? What the hell happens now?) He pulls at his hair in frustration, trying to think, but all he manages to do is make his curls sticky with lube.

“Sorry,” John says, his voice small and his face wretched. “It’s not that I don’t want you - I do - it’s just … I mean, I’m used to …”

His voice trails off but it switches a light-bulb on in Sherlock’s head and he claps his hands together in delight. (John’s a soldier. A man of action.)

Sherlock kisses him.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs into John’s mouth. “Amazing.”

John eyebrows pull together and the look in his eyes turns wary. “How exactly does me not being able to do this make me amazing? Because if you’re taking the piss-”

“No!” Sherlock gives him another quick kiss, rolls off him and throws himself onto his back at John’s side.

“You just said it yourself - you’re not used to being passive. We were doing it the wrong way round.”

John blinks. Swallows. Licks his lips.

"You mean ...? Really? You want me to ..? Look, we don't have to. Maybe we're not ready? We could do something else. Like, uh ... a blow job?"

(Blow job?) (Oral sex?) Sherlock is horrified: he has only the vaguest notion of how _that_ should go.

"No," he says. " _No_. I haven't done the research - and I _need_ to do the research. The only sex I'm prepared for is anal sex, so that’s what we’re going to do. _Have_. And, logically, you should go first. You have more experience. I'll observe and take notes."

There's a charged moment of silence, then John snorts out a laugh.

“Observe? Take notes?” John is actually giggling now, his body quivering with it, shaking little ripples through the mattress. “Of course, you will. You’re Sherlock Holmes. That’s what you do.”

Sherlock rolls onto his side and pulls John onto his, so they’re face to face.

“Get a condom on,” he says, jerking his head towards the box. “And some lubricant.”

"Sure?" John asks.

"Positive. Now, hurry up."

John sits up, takes one of the foil packs from the box and tears it open with his teeth.

“Are you going to be this bloody bossy throughout?” he asks, but the light in his eyes is warm now. Warm and fond.

Sherlock grins again. “I expect so.”

“We’ll see about that,” John says darkly, and rolls the condom on with what is clearly a practised hand. “My plan is to stop you even thinking, let alone talking.”

The notion should be horrifying, but instead it chases little fizzes of excitement up the back of Sherlock’s thighs and his toes curl.

“You can try,” he says, aiming for cool.

“Oh, I’ll do better than that,” John promises, as he slicks himself up briskly, and it might sound menacing if it weren’t for the catch in his voice and the way his eyes momentarily flutter shut. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready for _months_ , John.”

Sherlock expects John to take him like an army storming a castle, but John lays gentle siege to him instead: stroking and kissing, hands trailing down Sherlock’s arms and across his chest, followed by his lips and tongue, until Sherlock feels more like an object of worship than a fortress to be conquered.

“John,” he grunts, impatient. “Get on with it.”

And at last John touches him (properly) and the electricity is back, a million sharp points of it, making Sherlock twitch and arch as John’s hand pumps him, slowly at first and then faster, until Sherlock can’t get air into his lung fast enough. All his blood is in his penis, every sensation centred there - but suddenly, there’s more. Not a slow, sensual build but a bolt from the blue. John’s fingers slide into him, dragging fire in their wake. Sherlock feels himself tighten around them, but John’s keeps working his penis and the muscles relax again, allowing John’s fingers in further and deeper.

“Prostate,” Sherlock says hoarsely.

“Shut the fuck up,” John replies, his voice full of smiles.

“All right,” Sherlock pants. “Just … just … Oh! Oh, God, _John …_ ”

John’s found it. Found it and is teasing it, and Sherlock is falling apart. Strung helplessly between the hand on his penis and fingers in his anus. Shuddering and writhing and wanting to break.

“Still taking notes?” John murmurs, as he plants open-mouthed kisses along Sherlock’s collarbone and the base of his throat.

Sherlock can’t answer but he hears John give a low, proud chuckle, and the sound makes him weaker still.

“Earth to Sherlock,” John says softly. “Standby by for take-off. I’m going to make you come now.”

Sherlock lets himself go loose. He’s had orgasms before - not many, but he knows what to expect … except apparently he doesn’t. John’s not just using his hand and his fingers now but his lips too, and his tongue, and even an Angel’s body isn’t built to withstand this sort of … (Oh, God.) Sherlock thrashes his head on the pillow, struggles to move his limbs and regain some control but he can’t. His prostate, penis, testicles and nipples are all tingling, all radiating pleasure and every bit of it is undoing him. The friction on his penis is accelerating, the pressure inside him better. Worse. He’s hot all over, straining away from the stimulation but it doesn’t slow or ease off, because John’s not letting him escape it, not letting him catch his breath or a thought. John’s in charge of this and there’s nothing Sherlock can do but surrender. He stops fighting, lets John take him right to the edge and push him over. For a moment, everything tenses with the excitement of it, then the pleasure explodes.

There are still warm little jolts going through him when his brain comes back online. He opens his eyes to see John above him, smiling down.

“You’re even more gorgeous when you come,” John says.

Sherlock feels ridiculously proud. He reaches up a hand to cup John’s face. “Are you?”

“No idea.”

“Let me see.” Sherlock spreads his legs wider, and brings them up around John’s waist. “Please, John - I want to see.”

John hesitates. Sherlock doesn’t. He bucks up against him until he can feel John’s erection, hard and sliding against him. He kicks John’s buttocks lightly with his heels, and John’s reflexive jerk forward is all it takes to push his penis into Sherlock’s waiting body. John closes his eyes and groans on a shudder. Sherlock squeezes his muscles tight and John groans again. He looks so helpless in the grip of his lust that Sherlock’s heart swells protectively. He rocks gently, pushing John in with his heels. Pulls back to let him slide out a bit, then pushes him in once more.

John is reduced to a hot and shaking mess in very little time. Sweat is gathering at the small of his back, and dripping from his brow.

“Let go,” Sherlock says. “Let go and let me see.”

John’s eyes open wide, searching Sherlock’s face.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock answers. “Fuck me, John. I need it. For my notes.”

The joke makes John laugh, and the laughter has him thrusting in hard. He giggles and thrusts harder, but before long, he’s not laughing at all - just grunting, hips pistoning wildly, and Sherlock’s clinging on. John’s face is a picture when he comes. Agonized but joyful. Sherlock lets the image sear itself onto his mental hard drive; then creates a back-up copy, just in case. He wraps an arm around John as he crumples and hugs him to his chest.

“That,” John says, when they eventually roll apart, “was absolutely brilliant.” He frowns, seeming to remember himself. “It was - wasn’t it?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “How many more times do I have to tell you that you see but don’t observe?”

John laughs and snuggles close. “Okay, yeah. I am the world’s greatest lover and you just had the best shag of your life.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock sniffs, kissing the top of John’s head when he grumbles in protest. “I was taking notes, remember? By my calculations, with practice, we can do a lot better than that.”

“Your calculations?” John laughs. “And you’re basing those on what? Should I even ask?”

“Endurance, for a start,” Sherlock says, eagerly. “We only managed -” He glances at his bedside clock. “- fourteen and half minutes, from start to finish. Understandable, given it was our first time, but with your muscle tone and lung capacity, we could easily double - triple - that.”

“I look forward to trying,” John mutters into Sherlock’s chest.

“We should also be able to increase ejaculation by volume,” Sherlock goes on, warming to the subject. “So - time taken and fluids produced. Both easily quantifiable. Satisfaction and excitement levels are more subjective. We’ll have to agree a scale of some-”

John cuts him off with a finger to his lips. “Listen to you. ‘Quantifiable’. ‘Subjective’. ‘Scale’. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even human.”

Sherlock blinks. He’d almost forgotten John still doesn’t know. He wants to tell him, wants to tell him now, but should he? (Now?) (Or will it spoil the mood? Spoil everything?) He can’t decide.

As the silence stretches on, John pulls out of Sherlock’s embrace to prop himself up on an elbow. He studies Sherlock’s face for a while, then frowns.

“What?”

(Yes.) (Now.) (Tell him now.)

“John … there’s something … something I’ve been meaning to tell you for ages.”

John’s frown deepens, and Sherlock feels suddenly queasy. (Perhaps this isn’t a good time, after all.)

“Oi.” John jabs him with a finger. “You’re worrying me now. Spit it out. You can’t just come out with something like that and-”

“John. I think you should know …”

“ _Yes_?”

Sherlock breathes in, closes his eyes.

“John. I’m _not_ human. I’m an Angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I thought this story would need twenty chapters but, because my chapters are so long, I find I only need fifteen. So, if you've noticed the change to the headers, that's why!


	13. The Side of the Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has told John something shocking. John tells him something shocking back. In between, they go to Devon, investigate a gigantic hound and get a visit from Mycroft's boyfriend. Meanwhile, Mycroft tries to believe the end justifies the means in his dealings with Moriarty, only to make a shocking discovery of his own.

“John. I’m not human. I’m an Angel.”

The words are finally out. Eyes still closed, Sherlock pictures them hanging in the air, glinting like blades in the afternoon light, every one pointing at John. (The world as John’s known it has just been turned on its head.) (There will be shouting, anger. Things will break.) Sherlock braces himself for the inevitability of John grabbing him by the throat and demanding to know why he’s lied to him for so long.

Instead, there’s only silence. A silence that goes on and on. Sherlock feels the sweat from their oh-so-recent exertions cooling on his skin; feels the pulse beating in his throat, at his wrists, in his ears.

He’s scared - actually scared - of what John’s going to say next.

But John’s not saying anything. (Didn’t he understand? Didn’t he hear? Has he fallen asleep?). Sherlock opens his eyes and finds John frowning, lips pursed, brows drawn together. It’s the face he pulls when confronted with a particularly complex crime scene (or the Saturday Guardian crossword).

“Soooo-”

“Yes,” Sherlock says quickly, firmly (bravely), but the furrows on John’s forehead only deepen.

“So, you’re saying-”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s jaw tightens and he sits up. He can’t bear this tension. He needs to know now, immediately, what John’s going to do with his revelation.

“… you’re saying that you’re not human?”

“Yes!” Sherlock shouts. If this goes on much longer, he’ll explode.

But John … John is completely calm. He tips his head to one side and looks at Sherlock thoughtfully. “You’re an angel?”

“Oh, God, John - how many more times? Yes, I’m an Angel. An Angel. A superior being. I’m-”

John’s calm suddenly shatters. He gives a hoot of laughter and falls back against the bed, giggling so hard, it makes the mattress shake.

“John-”

“No!” John pleads, holding up both hands as he gasps for breath. “No more. Don’t … I mean, I always knew …Christ, Sherlock, you’re hilarious.”

This is not what Sherlock expected. In all the times he’s imagined confessing, he’s never once thought that John might laugh.

He tries again. “John, I’m being serious.”

John snorts again and throws his head back against the pillows. “Of course you are. Of course you are. You’re Sherlock Holmes. Brain the size of a planet. Ego the size of a solar system.”

“John. Listen to me.”

John stills, presses his lips together hard, and looks up, but as soon as his gaze meets Sherlock’s, he’s off again, snorting and giggling, the post-coital flush on his cheeks turning even pinker. Sherlock’s patience snaps. He throws a leg over John’s body, pins his shoulders and sits astride him, doing his best to ignore the fact that he’s sore in places he’s never even thought about before.

“John.”

“Yes, angel?” John’s eyes twinkle and the corners of his mouth twitch with the effort of trying to look solemn.

Sherlock growls in frustration and tightens his grip. “John!”

“It’s funny,” John says, “I never took you for the sweet nothings type. _Angel_.”

“John, if you don’t stop being stupid, I’ll-” Sherlock’s discomfort is undeniable now, and he has to reseat himself to get more comfortable.

“You’ll what, angel?”

Sherlock splutters. He wants to be serious. To talk about this and make John understand. But (damn it!), he can’t help seeing the funny side, too: John’s mirth is infectious. He racks his brain for a suitably Biblical threat. The Book of Job has something that might impress a doctor.

“I’ll afflict you with sores.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got some cream upstairs. Talking of which - looks like you could use some. Get off me a minute and I’ll-”

“Fleas! I’ll bring down a plague of fleas on you.”

John laughs. “Not with your level of personal grooming you won’t. A plague of dust mites, maybe.”

“Boils!” Sherlock says, making another stab at intimidating.

It doesn’t work. John laughs again, gives a sudden twist and flips Sherlock over onto his back. By the time Sherlock’s processed what’s happening, their positions have been reversed, and John is sitting on him, his face bright with smiling, his cheeks pink and glowing.

(He’s happy.) (Why spoil it?) Sherlock tried to tell him the truth. (Did tell him.) It’s not his fault John won’t believe it.

“Thank you,” John says.

“For what?”

“For still being … you. For making this not weird. I thought it might be.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot.”

John laughs and leans in to kiss him. “There you go again, making it seem perfectly normal.”

“Normal!” Sherlock scoffs, pulling him down onto the bed again. “I don’t do ‘normal’, John. I only do perfect.”

____________

John awakes with a start. At first he has no idea where he is, other than that he’s not in his room. He’s so warm, he could be in Afghanistan, but the smells and the sounds are all wrong. He rubs his eyes and his focus clears. There’s a steel lamp right next to him, a small bedside table that’s familiar but not his, and on the wall beyond it, a poster-

 _Oh. Right._ This is Sherlock’s bed. The bed they just shagged in. John can’t quite believe it. He rolls carefully onto his back, trying not to wake the sleeping form next to him, and then onto his side to review the evidence. Yep. That’s Sherlock all right - flushed and naked and breathing softly, _right next to him_ He could reach out and touch him, but he doesn’t. There’s something too perfect about the sight of Sherlock peacefully asleep. He looks as beautiful as ever, but so much younger. Vulnerable. His hair’s a mess; the little frown lines between his eyebrows have smoothed out. And his eyelashes … John’s heart seems to push up into his throat, and he finds himself smiling pointlessly, fondly, incredulous and amazed. He’s had sex with Sherlock. With _Sherlock Holmes_.

John consults his watch. It’s only half-past eight, and he’s not due at the surgery until ten tomorrow. There’s plenty of time for round two. If they both wanted. His dick twitches at the thought, twitches again and started to thicken. He wriggles closer to Sherlock.

“Sherlock ..?”

No answer.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s face tightens into a frown. He grunts - a short, irritated sound - and rolls onto his side, away from John, pulling most of the duvet with him.

John cuddles close again. Slides an arm around Sherlock’s waist. And if the edge of his hand brushes the springy tangle of Sherlock’s pubic hair, it’s almost entirely accidental. There’s no erection there yet but John’s more than happy to work on that …

“Sherlock.”

This time the grunt is definitely irritated. It’s followed by a few, terse words. “Sleeping. Tomorrow. Stamina.”

Well, at least it’s not a ‘no’, and John’s grateful for that. He wriggles back to the other side of the bed - if Sherlock needs rest, John’s determined he shall have it - and tries to settle down for the night, but he can’t. His mind’s racing and his erection refuses to be ignored. After fifteen minutes of trying to will it away - fifteen minutes in which he’s painfully aware of Sherlock’s proximity, of the smell and the heat of him - he gives up. He escapes to the bathroom and wanks himself off to the memory of Sherlock struggling to keep his composure and the gravelly moan that escaped him when he failed.

John’s a sticky mess when he’s done. He thinks about ducking into the shower to clean it all off but decides against. The noise will disturb Sherlock and he might suspect John of doing it deliberately. John’s keen to postpone their first row as a couple for as long as he can.

A couple? Is that what they are now? John looks at himself in the bathroom mirror as he uses handfuls of tissue to wipe himself down. Some part of his brain is insisting he ought to be feeling bad about this. He promised Mum. He’s not gay. He’s never been inside a man before, and yet … He grins at his reflection. He doesn’t feel bad at all. He tries dwelling on the fact that Sherlock was a virgin, that some might think John took advantage of him, but nope. Not even a shred of guilt. He loves Sherlock - bloody well loves him - and if Mum and her religion wouldn’t approve of that, then too bad. Love isn’t all about babies. With Sherlock, John has all the family he wants or needs.

He leaves the bathroom by the hallway door, grabs a juice from the fridge and takes it up to his room to catch up on work. There are still papers from the Bristol conference he hasn’t read, and he really should if he’s to write a paper of his own. He finally falls asleep some time after one, under a slew of learned articles on heart disease.

____________

Another drizzly, grey day; another steel-edged expression of disappointment from Gabriel. _We had hoped to have news of Moriarty’s detention by now, but we’re sure you’re doing your best. Just as we’re sure you have an alternative means of disposal to replace Bond Air_. Mycroft sighs. He’s fed up with London, fed up with Earth. He wants to go home.

He stands in the conservatory and watches rain streak the windows. He’s developed a fondness for Gregory but enough is enough. The Fallen is an underling, and one who’s failing him. Moriarty should be behind bars now. Safely in custody. For his own good. And for Mycroft’s.

A clatter of crockery and the bang of kitchen cupboard doors announces Gregory has finally dragged himself from bed. Mycroft turns to look. Gregory has dressed but not shaved. His shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a purpling smudge just shy of his collar-bone and, despite his good intentions of withholding his attentions until Gregory delivers, Mycroft feels a surge of heat. He takes a hurried sip of his lemon tea and pushes past Greg to deposit his mug in the sink.

When he looks around again, Greg has a frying pan on the hob, containing three slices of streaky bacon and two double-yoked eggs. He pulls a guilty face when he sees Mycroft surveying it.

“I know,” he says, with a helpless shrug. “Number two, right? Gluttony.”

“Number three on some lists, but yes.”

“Number two on mine,” Greg grins, darting forward to plant a quick kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. “My favourite’s always going to be lust.”

Mycroft gives him a narrow-eyed look. He can’t afford to let himself be wooed off track. “I’m your … friend, Gregory. Not your confessor.”

“True -” Greg flips the eggs over, one at a time. “- but you know all about my sinning.”

He turns the bacon too, licks his lips and comes dangerously close to giving Mycroft a cheeky little wink. Mycroft fends it off with a cold, hard stare.

“Do I? I doubt it. There are sins of omission, Gregory, as well as sins of commission, and I fear there are many things you’ve left undone.”

Greg’s face falls. He turns off the gas and transfers his breakfast to a plate with a groan.

“Moriarty, you mean. Look, I keep telling you - I’m doing what I can. But it’s not easy. I’m not my own boss, like you. I’ve got the Chief Super to answer to, and all he’s interested in at the moment is clearing up the Carey murder. One of our own, slaughtered like that. You can see his point.”

“Indeed. But there’s nothing you can do for Carey. He’s dead. Meanwhile, Moriarty is very much alive and, unlike your Commander Carey, _he_ can still be saved. Plus, I need hardly remind you, an Archangel somewhat outranks a Chief Superintendent. Gabriel is not pleased.”

“Gabriel never is,” Greg says, and waggles a bit of bacon on the end of a fork under Mycroft’s nose. “Go on. Take it. The world is a better with some bacon in you.”

Mycroft sniffs and takes the offering between his fingers.

“Putting your gutter humour firmly to one side, I’m telling you to focus all your attention on apprehending Moriarty. I’m serious,” he adds firmly, when Greg smiles and kisses his cheek again.

“I would if I could, Mycroft, but the press are already crucifying us. And anyway, Management must have better resources at their disposal than me.”

“Heaven works through each one of us,” Mycroft reminds him primly, alarmed at how many of Heaven’s tenets Greg seems to have forgotten.

Greg shakes his head. “Sorry. No can do. A dead commander isn’t exactly something I can shelve-”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Sherlock will solve it, leaving you free to assist me.”

Greg grimaces. “I can’t leave him unsupervised. Not on a case like this.”

“You have subordinates, don’t you? That thin-faced fellow and the woman with the pout.”

“ _They’re_ the reason I can’t leave him unsupervised. They hate him.”

“I shall have a word. Tell him to be on his best behaviour.”

“And you reckon that’ll work, do you?” Greg’s expression declares, loud and clear, that he does not.

Mycroft shrugs. “With my brother, one never knows. But what I do know is that I very much need you.”

“You bastard,” Greg growls. “Can hardly say no now, can I?”

Mycroft smiles. Management really should amend their teaching on Attachment. Sometimes, it’s the only way to get things done.

____________

Sherlock stretches out luxuriously under his duvet, his mind awash with new data. He would never have believed it possible to be so content without a nice juicy murder to investigate and yet, here he is, perfectly happy, reflecting on the impact one individual can have on another’s body at the completely opposite end of the person-on-person scale.

Of course, it helps that the information he’s reviewing comes from an excellent source: despite his protests of ignorance in the area of male-upon-male encounters, John has proved devastatingly competent, enthusiastic and receptive. Sherlock has already learnt a lot. In addition to John’s first lesson on mutual masturbation all those months ago, they’ve now covered kissing and biting to an even more passionate level, and proceeded all the way to anal sex. Sherlock has enjoyed it all. He trusts John, cares for him, and admires his skill.

Even so, there was a bit of tension between them half an hour ago, just before John left for work. Sherlock was eager for an exact repeat of last night, but John wouldn’t, insisting that it was too soon, that he couldn’t when Sherlock was still sore, and besides, it was Sherlock’s turn. Sherlock demurred: he’s still too fuzzy on the right way to proceed. John is a wonderful shag but a terrible teacher; the things he makes Sherlock feel put his analytical brain almost completely offline. Sherlock strokes a hand down his chest to his belly, remembering. He wants to be able to do that, to give John so much pleasure he forgets his own name. But first, he needs to research ways of making John relax.

He gets out of bed, buzzing with purpose, pulls on his dressing gown and heads for the sitting room with it flapping loosely about his legs. His laptop is under his chair, where he left it. He carries it over to the table and switches it on, pressing his palms together impatiently as he waits for it to boot up. (John’s laptop is quicker - fewer image heavy files - but there’s always the possibility he’ll decide to check his browser history, and this is supposed to be a surprise.) As soon as Sherlock’s connected, he starts Googling: oral sex/blow jobs, technique.

It’s fascinating. (Seriously fascinating.) So many tricks to experiment with, so many ways to mix and match. (Lips. Tongue. Friction, suction, cheeks. Licking, humming, teeth …) (Teeth?!) (Oh, right … light grazing, not biting. That makes sense.) (Although, this entry here says-)

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock almost chokes on his own saliva at the sound of Mycroft’s voice, and he hastily fastens his gown. (There are marks. Light scratches. Things that Mycroft should never, ever see.)

“Mycroft,” he snarls, when he’s decent. “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft saunters over, umbrella twirling.

He’s wearing yet another Savile Row suit (light grey wool, Prince of Wales check) (Management will be bankrupt soon if his lust for good tailoring isn’t reined in) and he looks appallingly pleased with himself. (Glowing.) (As if he’s abandoned all attempts at rising up through the ranks and gone straight for sainthood instead.)

“Not busy, are you?” he asks.

“Very. Go away.”

Sherlock makes shooing motions with his hand but Mycroft stays exactly where he is.

“I’d hardly call frequenting internet pornography sites ‘busy’,” he says.

Sherlock slams his laptop shut and gets to his feet. “What do you want?”

“Inspector Lestrade will be calling on you later today. He needs help and I’d like you to assist.”

“Help with what?”

“Solving the Carey murder case.”

Sherlock vaguely recalls the name from the papers. (Senior policeman, murdered in his own home. Suspect already under arrest.) (Boring).

“I thought they had someone in custody for that?” he mutters.

“Wrong someone.” Mycroft smiles brightly as he lays down his trump card.

(Damn.) Despite himself, Sherlock feels an itch of interest and turns to fiddle with the jack-knifed letters on the mantelpiece in order to hide it.

“Lestrade out of his depth again?”

“He’s doing something for me.”

There’s something about the way Mycroft says it (a slight softening of the vowels, an infinitesimal drop in pitch) that makes Sherlock snap his head back round and pay closer attention. (What is it? What? What’s going on?) Sherlock feels his jaw drop.

“You’re sleeping with him,” he says, the words forming strange and impossible shapes in his mouth. “After everything you’ve said, you’re actually having sex. With Lestrade.”

Mycroft stiffens.

“Don’t be absurd!” he says, but his eyes dart about the dark corners of the room, towards the paintings, the skull on the wall and the one on the mantel.

“The flat’s clean,” Sherlock says. “I’ve been sweeping it for bugs for months. No-one can hear us. You’re sleeping with Lestrade.”

Mycroft pushes his shoulders back and raises his chin. (Defiance.)

“It’s purely physical, I assure you,” he says, mouth tight. “Not that it’s any of your business. And _I_ am always the one in charge. If only the same could be said of you.”

A wave of unpleasant heat washes over Sherlock. He wishes he’d showered and dressed. He feels horribly exposed like this, clad only in a thin, silk gown and with ejaculate drying on his skin.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, but he can’t help wincing when he throws himself a bit too violently into his chair for a touch of dramatic emphasis.

Mycroft makes a soft clucking sound with his tongue and he shakes his head.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he says, smiling his hateful, indulgent, big brother smile. “I can smell it on you. I can see it in your eyes.”

Sherlock folds his arms across his chest. “So? I thought you’ve always wanted me to be happy?”

“I do. But you’re an Angel. You really should be assuming the more active role.”

If there’s anything more excruciating than Mycroft offering sex advice, Sherlock doesn’t want to imagine what it might be. He screws his eyes shut and holds up a hand.

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Just don’t.”

“Sherlock, listen to me. You’re no more what the English-speaking world sees fit to call a ‘bottom’ than I am. And John Watson is certainly no ‘top’. He’s a follower, not a leader. If you haven’t worked out that much about him, then I fear where this may end up.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarls. “I’ll take your case for you, but only if you shut up and leave.”

Mycroft nods. “I have an eleven o’clock at the MoD. I really should be on my way.”

Sherlock gets up to herd him towards the door.

“Food for thought, though,” Mycroft murmurs, his hand on the door knob. “And I’m always here for you, should you find yourself in need of the odd pointer.”

Sherlock would rather die than dignify that with a reply.

“The important thing to remember,” Mycroft goes on, absently (deliberately) caressing the knob, “is to put John’s needs ahead of your own. That way, when the time comes to tell him what he is, he’ll have no doubts about where his allegiances lie.”

“Too late!” Sherlock is feeling so cornered, the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

Mycroft’s jaw goes tight. “What do you mean? Oh, Sherlock - you haven’t?”

Sherlock tosses his head. “Yes, brother dear, I absolutely have.”

Mycroft’s anxiety is like a drug. Sherlock can’t get enough of it and it’s delicious to watch the colour drain from his face.

“And?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock’s been an idiot. He should have known that Mycroft wouldn’t be stunned speechless like a normal person; that he’d have follow-up questions.

“He was shocked?” Mycroft guesses when Sherlock presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Horrified? Determined to inform National Security? The UN?”

At Mycroft’s rising panic, Sherlock almost laughs. But the panic grinds to a disappointingly sudden stop and Mycroft’s eyes narrow.

“No. None of those. You had intercourse mere hours ago, and John Watson is not the type of man to sleep with the enemy. Ergo, he doesn’t see you as the enemy … Why not? Ah! I see.” Mycroft’s mouth curls into one of his most reptilian smiles. Sherlock half-expects him to dart out a forked tongue to lick at his lips. “He didn’t believe you.”

Sherlock scuffs at the carpet with a toe. “No.”

“He thought you’d gone mad.”

“No! He thinks I’m a raving egomaniac, if you must know.”

“Well, he’s not wrong there …”

“Shut up!”

“Oh, cheer up. He’s obviously not holding that against you.”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. “He’s taken to calling me ‘angel’,” he admits, feeling very, very stupid.

Mycroft peals with laughter. “Oh, how very charming! ‘Angel’. May I call you that, too?”

“D’you want me to take the Carey case?”

Mycroft holds up both gloved hands in surrender. “All right. I’ll say no more, but thank you. This has been delightful. We must do it again very soon.”

Sherlock just glares. “Out. You’ve had your fun. Piss off.”

____________

It’s late afternoon and John squints as a tentative sharft of spring sunshine pierces the gloom inside Commander Peter Carey’s home. The commander’s body has been removed from his study but the blood stains have not. The wall behind his desk is dark and sticky with them; the carpet beneath, a gory mess. John’s stomach gives a nasty lurch. This isn’t the first time he’s seen a scene like this, and he feels himself teetering on the edge of remembering things he’d rather not. As ever, Sherlock is a life-saver. He sweeps past, deaf to Anderson’s whining about contaminating the crime scene and, as he carefully approaches the wall, John focuses his entire attention on him, taken aback again that this gorgeous and brilliant man is his. He can’t imagine he’ll ever get used to that. Every bit of Sherlock is perfect, John thinks, rapt, as Sherlock pulls on a pair of forensic gloves and probes delicately at the gouge in the wall, his fingers stroking, dancing … John swallows and thinks about the tragic state of his bank balance in a desperate attempt not to get hard.

“Be careful with that!” Anderson snaps. “That’s where the spear went right through him.”

“Yes. Thank you for stating the obvious,” Sherlock says, still scrutinizing the ragged hole. “Good to see all those years of training didn’t go to waste.”

Anderson looks at Donovan; Donovan squares her shoulders. “Why are you even here, freak?” she says.

“Because you need me.” Sherlock is examining the hole with his hand lens now.

“No,” Donovan says, and steps closer. “We don’t. We’ve got the killer.”

Sherlock spins around. “John Neligan?” He laughs. “Have you seen him? What on earth makes you think a man who barely weighs nine stone could have done this?”

Donovan brandishes something in an evidence bag under Sherlock’s nose. From where John’s standing, it looks like a driving licence.

“All that proves, is that he’s an idiot,” Sherlock says. “The real killer wouldn’t have been so careless.”

“He was desperate,” Anderson says. “The last person he expected to see when he came here to apply for the job as Carey’s wife’s driver was the very man who put him behind bars twenty years ago. He lost it. Snatched down one of those ceremonial spears and stabbed him with it.”

Sherlock glances up at the wall-mounted display of spears above the fireplace. _Presented to Commander Peter Carey in recognition of his contribution to policing in Kenya_ , the plaque beside it says.

“No,” he says, and a tingle of excitement goes up John’s spine. Sherlock is about to be brilliant.

“No?” Donovan demands. “Come on, then. Let’s hear it. What’s the freak theory?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her. “It’s not a theory, it’s fact. Based on something you both chose to overlook.” He lifts something from Carey’s desk and holds it out on his upturned hand.

Donovan picks it up and examines it. “This?” she sneers. “This is the Commander’s cigarette lighter. Irrelevant.”

“It’s not his.” This time, the little hairs on John’s forearms lift. Sherlock’s dramatic timing is perfect. Thrilling.

“Of course it’s his!” Donovan taps the back of the casing triumphantly. “It’s got his initials engraved on it right here. P.C.”

“It’s a wonder _you’re_ not a P.C,” Sherlock says. “If it’s Carey’s, then where are his cigarettes? Where’s his ashtray? Where’s the lingering smell of smoke? There isn’t any. Because he didn’t smoke. Did you read the post mortem? Did it mention nicotine stains on his fingers?”

Donovan looks a lot less certain than she did. She darts a look at Anderson, whose eyes are flicking about like a man who’s lost his keys and can’t remember where he put them. Donovan gives a tiny growl of frustration.

“It could be Neligan’s,” Anderson offers hastily, stupidly - much to Donovan’s distress and Sherlock’s amusement.

“Like I said,” he says, “you need me.”

“All right,” Donovan says, “if Neligan didn’t do it, who did?”

“A smoker. A smoker with the initials P.C. And strong enough to drive a spear right through a fifteen-stone man’s chest and out the other side. Someone who knew this address and was let into the house without a struggle.”

Donovan plants her hands on her hips. “And just where d’you reckon we’re going to find someone like that?”

Sherlock smiles at her. It’s not a nice smile. “Oh, I don’t, Sally. You’ve already made more than enough mistakes here. _I’ll_ do it. But, tell you what, if you agree to keep Anderson out of my hair, you can take the credit.”

Anderson splutters. Donovan fumes. Sherlock looks delighted. He’s an idiot.

John sidles closer. “This is why people don’t like you, angel,” he mutters, elbowing Sherlock in the ribs.

Sherlock’s head snaps around. There are spots of pink on his cheeks and, behind them, John hears Donovan snicker. _Shit. Bloody hell. Shit._

“Sherlock-” John begins, but Sherlock is already striding away.

John almost has to run after him, and only catches up him half-way down Carey’s oak-pannelled hall. Even then, he has to grab him by the arm to get his attention.

“Sorry,” John says. “I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. I shouldn’t have-”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice is ice cold as he shakes John off, his eyes hard. “You shouldn’t have.”

John grimaces. “Well, I suppose they had to find out eventually. It’s got to be written all over my face.” He catches Sherlock’s hand and gives it a squeeze.

Sherlock wrenches it away again.

“Don’t,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

John’s too annoyed with himself, too embarrassed, to argue. In the awkward silence that follows, Sherlock stalks out of the house and commandeers their taxi, leaving John to make his own way home.

____________

Despite the nannying, finger-wagging, it’s-for-your-own good prohibition against smoking indoors, in times of high emotion, Mycroft permits himself the occasional cigarette, even on Government premises.

Thanks to Greg’s wonderful news, now is such a time, and Mycroft removes the battery from the smoke alarm behind his desk one-handed, mobile still pressed to his ear, as he retrieves a single cigarette from his secret store. He lights it, inhales a lungful of hot, bitter smoke and exhales. The nicotine is quick to do its work, allowing his elation to subside into something more manageable.

“Very good, Gregory,” he says. “Excellent work. Take the rest of the afternoon off. I believe a reward is due.”

“A reward, huh?” Greg’s voice is warm, teasing. “What kind of reward?”

“Don’t be coy,” Mycroft says. “You know very well.”

Mycroft hears Greg swallow.

“Sounds, uh, great and I’d really like that, but- look, shouldn’t you be reporting upstairs? Finding out what they want us to do with him now we’ve got him?”

“Oh, I think Heaven can wait for a bit.” Mycroft takes another drag on his cigarette and exhales a perfect smoke ring. “Moriarty’s not going anywhere. The secure facility to which you’ve taken him is very, very secure. I’m confident he’ll still be there when I call in on him this evening. Meanwhile, I have a couple of hours to spare and the locks on my own door are not insubstantial.”

Greg splutters. The sound is delightful.

“What? You want … In your office?” He lowers his voice. “Listen, Mycroft, it’s a hell of a hot idea but I’m getting too old for shagging on the floor.”

“Who said anything about the floor?” Mycroft asks, sweetly. “I have a perfectly good desk.”

____________

Sherlock sits ensconced in one of the darker corners of The Beehive on Crawford Street, laptop on the table in front of him. Beside the laptop, he’s placed a pint of some dark beer (camouflage), from which he takes occasional sips (for verisimilitude) (just an ordinary punter, out for a drink) as he searches the internet for all the information he can find on Carey. The packet of crisps (Prawn Cocktail) remains untouched.

The pub is loud and busy. So loud, he can scarcely think. It would have been so much easier to do this at home. Except that John will be there, and Sherlock needs time to unravel his the tangle of his feelings before he can face him. His anger at John’s thoughtlessly blurted out endearment has dwindled, but it’s left him feeling twitchy and confused. He adores John, can’t imagine life without him, but he doesn’t want just anyone to know that. It’s not safe for him, and even less safe for John. That one little word, those touches, are over and done with but Sherlock can’t let them go. There’ll be more, unless he nips John’s openness in the bud, but he’s not even sure he wants to.

Finding no easy solution, he turns his attention back to following links to articles on Carey and scans another biography.

_Before his appointment as Commander, Peter Carey served with the Metropolitan Police Service for thirty years in uniform, mainly in West London. He spent four years as Hounslow deputy Borough Commander and two years as Richmond-upon-Thames deputy Borough Commander. In 2006 he was chosen by the International Police Training Institute to help develop training programmes in East Africa. He worked in Kenya and Tanzania (where he spent off duty hours learning to fish using a spear._

(That explains the ceremonial spear.) Sherlock reads on.

_In 2009 he was appointed as Islington Borough Commander after a close-run contest between Carey and his old friend, Southwark deputy Borough Commander Patrick Cairns._

Sherlock slams both fists down on the table in triumph, much to the consternation of the young City types at the next table.

(Patrick Cairns - P.C.) (It has to be him. It has to be. They were friends. That would explain why Carey let him into his house.)

Wikipedia has a whole page on Deputy Commander Peter Cairns, complete with photographs of a solidly muscular man in a tracksuit, holding a silver trophy aloft. Sherlock homes in on the engraving. _Police UK Sport Javelin Champion 2008._

(Gotcha!)

Sherlock takes out his phone and calls Lestrade.

It takes Lestrade ages to answer his phone. When he does, he’s panting.

“Hello. Lestrade. Who's this?”

“Have you been working out, Lestrade?” Sherlock asks, amused.

“What? No. Why?”

“You can hardly breathe.”

“I’m … busy. What do you want?”

“I’ve got your man for you. Carey’s killer. It was Patrick Cairns.”

“Cairns? Are you sure?”

“When you’ve ruled out the impossible, Lestrade …”

“But he’s a commander himself.”

“ _Deputy_ commander. And there’s your motive.”

“Yeah, but what about Neligan? Donovan texted earlier to say he confessed.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Neligan couldn’t have done it. And I’ll prove it. In the meantime, I suggest you put my brother down and go and arrest Cairns. I’ll meet you there.”

____________

As soon as Greg leaves, Mycroft goes over to his drinks cabinet to pour himself a celebratory whisky. Moriarty is in custody; Gabriel will be pleased. This will definitely be a point in Mycroft’s favour and - who knows? - it may even lead to promotion. Mycroft realizes he’s smiling as he takes out his phone and taps in Gabriel’s number.

“I have him,” he says, a soon as Gabriel answers. Golden sunlight penetrates the clouds beyond Mycroft’s office window at this pronouncement and he fancies he hears the reverberation of some distant Angelic chord. He holds his breath in anticipation of praise.

Instead, there’s a pause that’s as chilling as it is unexpected. When Gabriel speaks, his voice is hushed.

“I can rely on your discretion and loyalty, can’t I, Mycroft?” he asks.

“Always.” Mycroft puts down his glass and goes back to stand behind his desk. It seems more appropriate. _Safer_.

“Even if you do not fully fathom my reasoning?”

Even though Gabriel can’t see it, Mycroft inclines his head out of habit, only to notice a scrape on the otherwise pristine polished surface of his desk. It must have been caused by Greg’s belt buckle.

“Even then,” Mycroft murmurs, his attention drawn inappropriately to a fine layer of dust on his desklamp’s brass shade. He brushes it away with a finger. “Ask, and it shall be done. On Earth, as it is on Heaven.”

“This must go no further than your ears,” Gabriel says, and his tone tone is so low that Mycroft imagines he must be cupping a hand around his phone and whispering. “We are facing rebellion, and I must act to prevent revolution.”

The sunlight that had been brightening Mycroft’s office turns from gold to cold, hard white and strikes every edge in the room - desk, lamps and picture frames.

“Revolution?” he asks.

“Not yet. But it could become one. Which is why we need to take firm - _unprecedented_ \- measures.

Mycroft’s whole room seems to slant. He grips the back of his chair and feels the soft leather yield to the pressure.

“I am Heaven’s willing servant,” he says.

“Moriarty is their leader,” Gabriel says. “We had hoped it were not true, after so many years’ dedicated service, but the evidence all points that way - including evidence uncovered by your brother, although he does not know it.”

“What do you want me to do?” Mycroft asks, himself again. If talk of rebellion surprised him, Moriarty’s involvement in it does not.

“You will obtain a full confession,” Gabriel says. “Details of everything he has done; everything he plans to do. I want the names of his accomplices, the locations where they meet.”

“He’s unlikely to talk,” Mycroft warns, wary of his own fate should his efforts fail.

“And yet he _will_ ,” Gabriel says. “You will make him.”

____________

Officially, Acton Hill doesn’t exist. Unofficially, it’s a Category A+ prison, hidden deep in the Berkshire countryside; a Brutalist design in iron and concrete, behind a twelve feet high perimeter wall topped with coiled razor wire.

Mycroft quits his car and is escorted inside. The prison’s interior is as blankly grey as its exterior - the colour of London rain. The staff, all men, are dressed in black suits and ties. They look like undertakers. The thought makes Mycroft uneasy. Gabriel has given him carte blanche to act outside the law.

He proceeds to the first floor, and down a warren of featureless corridors. Eventually, he’s shown into an office that’s bare of everything but a table, a chair and a filing cabinet. The man behind the table gets smartly to his feet. He’s grey-haired and grey-faced but his eyes are piercingly clear.

“He won’t cooperate, sir,” he says, matter-of-factly. There’s no apology in his tone, no concern on his face. Instead, just the calm acceptance of someone who knows the process of interrogation has only just begun. “Though with your authorization-”

“Take me to him,” Mycroft says.

A look of surprise flickers across the governor’s face but it’s quickly gone. He nods, moves towards the door and gestures for Mycroft to follow.

They walk together in silence along corridors which become increasingly bare. Carpets disappear and signage vanishes. Meanwhile overhead, the fluorescent lighting grows ever more harsh.

Moriarty is being kept in a bare steel cell. Mycroft peers in at him through the observation room’s two-way mirror. At first he thinks the Dominion is asleep, but his eyes snap suddenly open, dark and glittering with hate.

“So nice of you to visit, Mr Holmes.” His voice comes sing-songing over the intercom. “Don’t be shy. Come on in and play.”

“This isn’t a game,” Mycroft says stiffly.

Moriarty throws back his head and laughs. “Of course it is! It’s the biggest, craziest game ever! You think you know the rules, but you don’t. Off with his head! None of it’s what you think.”

“You have no idea what I think.”

“Oh, do I not? I know you think that doing as you’re told, keeping your nose clean, will get you back to Heaven, but it won’t. Heaven doesn’t exist. Not as you know it. Not any more.”

Mycroft darts a glance at the governor. He doesn’t look like an Angel but one never can tell.

The man shrugs. “The staff psychiatrist has made a preliminary diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia,” he says. “We’re waiting on further tests.”

He sounds like an Earthian, thinks like an Earthian, but Mycroft isn’t going to take any chances. “Leave us,” he says. “And disable CCTV and voice recording. All of it.”

The governor hesitates.

Mycroft stares at him, hard. “That’s an order. I shall be perfectly safe.”

“I can give you ten minutes, sir. Any more than that and-”

Mycroft nods and shoos the man away.

“Just you and me now, is it?” Moriarty says, when he’s gone. He smiles and his eyes flutter closed. “Go on, then. Ask me. I know you’re dying to.”

“I don’t need to ask. I know you’re fomenting rebellion.”

“Do you now?”

“I do. Because I’m the one who’s been tasked with stopping you.”

Moriarty sighs. “Obviously.”

“Why?” Mycroft asks. “Why would you want to rebel?”

Moriarty laughs. “Because I’m mad! Thought you knew that.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. Your crimes have been very specific.”

“Ooh! He’s finally getting there.” Moriarty opens his eyes and claps his hands. “Well done.”

“What has killing Nephilim got to do with rebelling?”

“It’s where I started!” Moriarty shouts. “Nephilim shouldn’t exist. They’re dirty, dangerous, forbidden. Everybody knows that. That’s why there are so many cleaners. You, me, Frankland, Adler ... even poor old Stamford … Such a mess. We’re doing our best, aren’t we? But they just keep on coming. Not enough disinfectant, is there?” He sighs, then starts to pace around his cell, palms pressed together in an eerie echo of Sherlock when he’s thinking. After a couple of revolutions, he comes back to the mirror and again seems to peer right through the glass. “Join the rebellion, Mycroft,” he whispers. “Join us.”

Mycroft recoils. “I will do no such thing.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoil-sport. Join us. Get something for yourself for a change. I owe you!”

“What? You owe me nothing. I haven’t done you any favours.”

“But you could,” Moriarty says. “Though maybe not. You’re too … what’s the word? It’s right on the tip of my tongue … Oh, yes! Pompous. That’s it. You’re too _pompous_. Sherlock, on the other hand … He’ll listen.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “I know things, Mycroft. So many things. Terrible things that’ll blow your little world to pieces.”

“If you’re so clever,” Mycroft retorts, “you wouldn’t be behind bars.”

Moriarty laughs, then suddenly stops, like turning it off like a tap. He charges the two-way mirror, slams his palms against it, and the glass shudders in its frame.

“What does it tell you,” he snarls, nose to the glass, saliva glistening on his canines, “when someone who’s eluded capture by your genius brother for over a year suddenly gets caught by an ordinary policeman? It tells you they wanted to be caught.”

“Why would you want to be caught?” Mycroft scoffs.

Moriarty smiles. “Because, my dear, the time is finally right.”

____________

John wanders disconsolately into the kitchen to make a second cup of tea. Sherlock’s out, investigating.  Without him.

It’s his own fault, he knows. No matter how giddy with love and lust he was yesterday, he should never have forgotten that there’s A Time And A Place. So now he’s being punished. A whole evening and night have passed and Sherlock hasn’t contacted him. He probably won’t be speaking to John when he does finally come home either, because Sherlock can sulk for England when the mood takes him. John clenches his jaw. Sod it. He can’t face hours - days - of frosty silence. When Sherlock gets back, he’ll throw him up against the nearest wall, and rub him mercilessly through his trousers until he comes. There’s no way Sherlock will be able to keep up the silent treatment through that.

The kettle comes noisily to the boil, as if in agreement. John swirls one of Tetley’s finest about in a mug, then settles down in the living room with the crossword.

He’s scarcely solved two clues before his phone rings. He hopes it might be Sherlock, in a less petulant mood, but no, it’s Lestrade.

“Heads up, John. Sherlock’s not hurt but he’s covered with blood. Caused a bit of a panic on the Bakerloo Line.”

“Oh, God. D’you need me to come and-”

“No. He’s all right. Been harpooning a pig, apparently. Said it was strangely appropriate. Passengers on the Underground didn’t think so but he had a valid ticket and he hadn’t done anything wrong, so-”

“You sent him on his way?”

“Should be with you in about twenty minutes. Thought I should let you know, though. Prepare you. He’s not a pretty sight.”

John can’t believe that - Sherlock is never anything less than gorgeous - but he keeps that thought to himself.

“Thanks, Greg.”

“You’re welcome.”

Twenty minutes later, pretty much right on the dot, Sherlock comes clumping up the stairs from the street. Not his usual light tread, but heavy and stomping. As he gets closer, John hears the clunk of wood on wood. The living room door bangs open and there he is: Sherlock, splattered with blood, gory harpoon in hand. Greg was right. It’s not a pretty sight, and John’s plan for frottage against a wall gets quickly put on indefinite hold.

“Well, that was tedious,” Sherlock snarls, banging the end of the harpoon against the floorboard in annoyance.

“You went on the Tube, like that?” John asks, aghast.

“None of the cabs would take me,” Sherlock says, and actually has the nerve to sound affronted.

Well, John thinks to himself, as Sherlock stalks off to the shower, it could be worse. At least he’s talking.

____________

The pig-harpooning expedition was a great success in terms of proving that a man of Neligan’s slight musculature could not have driven a spear right through Carey’s body, but a failure in fixing things with John. Sherlock was sure coming home battle-blooded would stir the soldier in John to admiration, to solidarity and, yes, perhaps to lust. Instead, he merely looked appalled.

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to be appalled. Henry Knight is an idiot. Sherlock wishes he’d never let him in. The moron seriously believes his father was torn apart by a government-bred dog-monster, or possibly the Devil (although the Devil hasn’t left Hell in millennia): ergo, idiot. Sherlock wanted a real client, an interesting case. Anything to take his mind off the difficulty of negotiating this new and intimate relationship with John without prior training or experience. He didn’t mean to snarl at him. He doesn’t know how to heal the rift it’s caused. Other than by dazzling him.

Of course, John is being kind, and taking Knight seriously. He’s asking questions, scribbling notes, and generally looking interested. (What’s wrong with him? He’ll believe in devil dogs but not Angels?) (Can’t he smell that it’s just the opportunistic myth-spinning of a money-grabbing tourist industry?) Sherlock does his best to zone out as Knight witters on but his attention keeps being drawn back to John. To his mouth, his hands; to the way he occupies his chair. The texture of his shirt. The colour of it. The way it doesn’t quite fit. Sherlock’s fingers itch with the need to adjust it. To touch it. To touch John. In short, John’s very presence is forcing him to pay attention and listen.

However, when John gently suggests the animal attack may have been Knight’s childish way of coping with his devastating loss and Knight argues he’s seen footprints, on the ‘exact spot’ where his father was ‘torn apart’. Sherlock decides he’s had enough.

“Childhood trauma masked by invented memory,” he says. “Boring! Good-bye.”

Knight stays determinedly in his seat. “No, but what about the footprints?” he says, shooting a pleading look at John.

“Oh, they were probably paw prints,” Sherlock says.” Could be anything - therefore, nothing. Off to Devon with you. Have a cream tea on me.”

Again, Knight fails to take the hint. Sherlock gives up. He gets to his feet and walks away into the kitchen. Let John indulge him: Sherlock’s won’t.

But Knight calls after him. “Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”

A chill goes up Sherlock’s spine. The sort of chill that comes from the most intriguing of clues. He stops dead in his tracks and turns.

“Say that again.”

“I found the footprints,” Knight says. “They were- Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound.”

The hair at the back of Sherlock’s neck lifts. There is a case. A real one. One he’ll solve with brilliance and panache and John will be putty in his hands again.

____________

In the cold light of morning, Mycroft is no more sanguine about the Moriarty situation. The thought of using coercion goes against everything he’s ever believed in, and yet it seems the only way to get the truth from him.

Gregory’s alarm clock goes off with a hideous clanging of bells that makes Mycroft wince.  
Greg throws a hand out automatically to silence it, grunting into his pillow as he pulls the duvet up over his head.

“Very eloquent,” Mycroft says, and pulls it back again. “I believe you set your alarm for a reason. A reason other than setting my nerves on edge. Presumably your police work.”

“And a good morning to you, too,” Greg grumbles, and he sits up, scrubbing at his hair. “What are you so grumpy about?”

Mycroft considers denying the accusation. Then he considers lying.

“Moriarty,” he says, and feels strangely better for telling Greg the truth.

“What about him?”

“He won’t talk.”

“We get a lot of that with suspects at the Yard.”

“Yes, I imagine you must. And how does one ..?”

Mycroft lets his voice trail off, a sudden recollection of Sherlock’s lab on Heaven vivid in his head, complete with the hideous crackle of the electric test frame and the acrid smell of fear.

“Hey.” Greg’s warm hand squeezes his shoulder. “What’s up?”

Mycroft blinks, back in his bed again. “I wonder … Would you say my brother and I are alike?”

Greg frowns. “Well, you’re both tall and thin, with enormous brains-”

“I meant personality-wise.”

Greg snorts out a laugh. “No. Thank God! You definitely got all the charm in your family.”

“And ethically?”

“Not really. Sherlock’s got the makings of a good man, but he’s not there yet. Not by a long chalk.”

“But you think I am? Good?” Mycroft shakes his head. “The longer I’m here on Earth, the more I doubt it. There are some things - some decisions - I don’t feel entirely comfortable taking.”

Greg nods sympathetically. “That’s the burden of leadership. Luckily - for both the British Government and Management - you’ve got broad shoulders.” He pauses, then adds, with a twinkle, “I ought to know. Had my knees hooked over them often enough, haven’t I?”

Mycroft smiles as affection wells up in him. “You have a gift for making me feel better,” he says.

Greg kisses his cheek and nuzzles his ear. “That an invitation?”

“If only,” Mycroft sighs. “But you have to go to work, and so do I.”

Greg  pulls a regretful face and heads off towards the bathroom.

Mycroft waits for the shower to start running before he picks up his phone.

“Governor Meades,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I am hereby authorizing you to bring our special prisoner to the point where he’s willing to cooperate.”

____________

John knows a lot of people think him brave. It’s the having joined the army and got shot that does it: they think anyone normal with his qualifications would have specialized in something less gloopy (their words) and more profitable than field surgery. They think a normal, sensible bloke would have stayed safely at home in Britain, instead of going to Afghanistan to get shouted at, shot at and shot. He supposes he was brave, back then, but he can’t be any more because the thought of tackling Sherlock, of getting him to talk about their fragile new relationship and how they’re both getting things wrong, turns his insides to water. He doesn’t want to hear that Sherlock finds him clingy, inappropriate in public and unattractively keen. He already knows all that. He dearly wishes he could take back that ‘angel’ but he can’t. The only way forward is try to act cool, regain a little of the territory he’s lost and aim for dignity.

Getting Sherlock to drive the hire car they pick up from the station at Newton Abbot feels like a start. At least, it does until Sherlock gets behind the wheel. Then John’s idea that being driven would make him feel a little bit grand simply melts. Sherlock at the wheel, leather gloved and laser-eyed, sends at least half of John’s blood supply rushing to his cock. And - Jesus - the way he changes gear. Hand a tight fist around the gearstick, he shoves it ruthlessly forward and back, fingers lingering far longer than they should on the shaft … It’s a wonder John doesn’t come from just watching him, and the twelve mile journey to Hound’s Tor and their first glimpse of Baskerville is an awkward, silent one, with John not daring to speak lest his strangled tone betray the state he’s in.

Every bump in the road is a trial, and it’s a relief when they finally get out of the car. There’s a chill wind blowing on the moor that John prays will work to his advantage.

Sherlock locks the car and hands John a map, then climbs to the top of the granite outcrop to look around.

 _Oh shit._ John clenches his jaw. Does Sherlock have to do that? Stand there, coat flapping and looking Byronic? John concentrates on the map and on locating Dewer’s Hollow.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asks, forcing John to look up again from the safety of his Ordnance Survey.

The bastard has the wind in his hair now, making his wild curls wilder still and John’s belly tightens with lust. He seeks sanctuary in peering through his binoculars in the direction Sherlock’s pointing, and keeps them glued to his face as he replies.

“Minefield? Technically, Baskerville’s an army base, so I guess they’ve always been keen on keeping people out.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock says tersely, and heads back to the car. John has a horrible feeling the frosty atmosphere between them is going to last forever.

Twenty minutes later, John thinks that maybe it won’t.

The Cross Keys pub Sherlock’s booked them into comes as a total surprise. With its leaded windows and low, thatched roof, it looks like somewhere for honeymoons, not solving crimes, and John feels like everyone’s looking at him as he approaches the bar to check in.

There’s a bearded Scottish bloke on duty who quickly finds Sherlock’s name in the register.

“Twin room, first floor, right at the end of the corridor,” he says, and hands over a key. “Sorry we couldn’t do a double room for you boys.”

“No, that’s fine,” John replies automatically before registering the barman’s apologetic smile. He starts to stutter out a denial. “We-we’re not …” But his voice trails off as realization dawns, and his heart gives an optimistic leap.

Sherlock booked their room, and he asked for a double. It doesn’t matter that they’re going to have to make do with a twin room, Sherlock’s intent is clear.

And this won’t be the first time John’s shagged in a single bed.

____________

Sherlock is still convinced that whatever Henry Knight saw, it can’t have been the Devil (and especially not in the form of a monstrous hound) but Fletcher, the tourist guide, has given him food for thought. If Baskerville really is carrying out genetic experiments, then who knows what’s inside its forbidding walls. (Nephilim, potentially.) (And if so, this case goes far beyond one man’s death.) (Far beyond the MoD.) Sherlock still hasn’t worked out what Mycroft was doing with Bond Air … He needs to get inside that base. Luckily, he has Mycroft’s access-all-areas I.D.

John’s reluctant at first, protesting rules and regulations, but Sherlock can almost hear his heart beating faster at the prospect and the sound of his blood singing through his veins. It makes him smile as they get out of the Land Rover and walk through the daunting metal maze of Baskerville’s outbuildings. (The hormonal cascade triggered by danger is remarkably similar to that involved in falling in love: adrenalin, dopamine, serotonin.)

However, before they can get into the base itself (and get John’s limbic system really pumping), an army vehicle comes screeching to a halt in front of them and a young soldier jumps out.

“Your I.D. showed up straight away, Mr Holmes,” he says. “Corporal Lyons. Security. Is there something wrong, sir? It’s just that we don’t get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn’t happen.”

“Ever heard of a spot check?” John asks briskly, his voice so steely it makes Sherlock’s heart skip a beat and he watches, impressed, as John pulls out his army I.D. and introduces himself. “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

The corporal comes swiftly to attention, bringing his right arm up in a smart salute. “Sir! Major Barrymore won’t be pleased, sir. He’ll want to see you both.”

“I’m afraid we won’t have time for that,” John returns, coolly. “We’ll need the full tour, right away. Carry on.”

Goose pimples chase up Sherlock’s arms. (John is fantastic. Brilliant. Cool under pressure. Commanding.) He looks at Lyons expectantly, but Lyons inhales noisily as if preparing to argue.

“That’s an order, Corporal,” John barks, and Lyons drops his gaze to the ground.

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock has to swallow. He had no idea John could be so … forceful. Lyons is already leading the way to Baskerville’s security doors and John is following. Sherlock falls into step beside him.

Mycroft’s misappropriated I.D. is scanned and, predictably, the door opens. Sherlock checks his watch as they step inside. (Twenty minutes, tops, before someone realizes something is wrong.)

“Nice touch,” he murmurs to John as they follow Lyons down a brightly lit corridor.

“Haven’t pulled rank in ages,” John says. ( _Purrs_.)

“Enjoy it?”

“Oh, yeah,” John breathes, and Sherlock has to concentrate very hard on the risk they’re running to avoid kissing him.

____________

Mycroft is feeling light-headed. Not the pleasant kind of giddiness that comes from having Greg’s tongue in his ear, or Greg's mouth on his penis, but the world-spinning-too-fast, out-of-control kind. In the quiet, beeswaxed calm of the Diogenes Club, he reaches for his coffee but when he lifts it to his lips, his stomach gives an acid clench.

_Sherlock’s got the makings of a good man, but he’s not there yet. Not by a long chalk._

_But you think I am? A good man?_

He closes his eyes and offers up a silent, futile prayer.

_If You are willing, take this cup from me._

He nearly drops his actual cup into his lap when, immediately, his phone gives a soft trill. He takes it out and scans the message.

_potential level 5 security breach_

_5555*0000*x1//5894_

Sherlock. Of course. And for some reason, he appears to have broken into Baskerville. Mycroft rattles off an irritated text to him.

_What are you doing? M_

But it’s no sooner sent than Mycroft’s irritation completely evaporates. Never has a prayer of his been so swiftly answered. He taps another number and waits for Greg to pick up.

“Pack your bags, Gregory,” he tells him. “You’re going to Devon.”

“I am? Why?"

“My brother, I’m afraid. He’s been poking his nose in where it’s not wanted again.”

“Is he in trouble?”

“No yet, but it can only be a matter of time. Go and keep an eye on him for me, will you? I’ll have my secretary email you the details.”

“Would be nicer if you came too,” Greg says and Mycroft can hear a smile in his voice, see the warm dark glow in his eyes.

He sighs. “Affairs of state do not allow.”

“Yeah,” Grey says, disappointed. “I know how it is.”

Mycroft is profoundly relieved that he doesn’t, and he’s going to do everything in his power to ensure he never does.

____________

John’s pulse rate only returns to normal when they’re back in their hired car and Baskerville is six miles behind them. And yet he has to admit, it was great getting caught, with all those klaxons blaring and red lights flashing, then getting away with it, after all.

“Bit of a godsend,” John says, conversationally, as the moors slide past the passenger window. “Frankland. Lying for us like that.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock says. “But the question is: why?”

“He’s a fan?” John suggests. “He likes your website, and my blog. Maybe he just wanted the pleasure of doing us a favour?”

“No,” Sherlock says, sounding very certain. “There’s more to it than that. Stapleton may be the one making glow-in-the-dark rabbits, but Frankland … Let’s just say that Frankland is working on something much bigger. Reporting to someone far higher placed that Major Barrymore.”

“Mycroft?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but he looks worried as he turns off into a side-road.

“We’re here,” he says.

Henry’s house is not what John was expecting. It’s colossal, in a colossal garden, and more like a castle than a single bloke’s home.

Henry opens the door, looking tired and grey, but he invites them and makes tea as he tells Sherlock what little he can remember of the attack on his father.

“I keep seeing ‘Liberty’,” he says. “ ‘Liberty’ and ‘in’. It’s just that.”

John turns to Sherlock. “Mean anything to you?”

Henry has started tidying things away compulsively - milk in the fridge, mug in the sink - his movements slow and ponderous, like the weight of his personal horror is crushing him.

“ ‘Liberty in death’,” Sherlock replies softly. “Isn’t that the expression? The only true freedom.”

John’s body gives a sudden, involuntary shudder as if he were unbearably cold, though he’s not. ‘Someone walking over your grave’, Mum used to call it. It’s an unpleasant thought.

“What now?” Henry asks.

“We take you out onto the moor and see if anything attacks you,” Sherlock says blithely.

John can’t believe his ears. Henry Knight is a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. John’s no psychiatrist, but Sherlock must be mad.

“ _That’s_ your plan?” he says. “Brilliant. That’s _not_ a plan.”

Henry looks terrified.

____________

It’s almost dark and raining, and Mycroft would far rather be in front of his own fireplace with Gregory than entering Acton Hill for a second time. Governor Meades shows the way along a new set of corridors.

“This had better be worth it,” Mycroft mutters.

“He asked for you specifically, Mr Holmes,” the governor says.

They enter the observation room and, through its two-way mirror, Mycroft sees Moriarty, shackled to a chair in the centre of his cell. A man clad in black is striking his face repeatedly with a leather-gloved hand but, though Moriarty reels under the blows, he makes no sound. His eyes are open, staring into the distance; his face is beaded with sweat. Mycroft’s stomach contracts.

“Stop,” he orders over the intercom and the beating ceases. Moriarty closes his eyes and smiles.

“I’m going in,” Mycroft says. “And I want no surveillance of any kind.”

Meades nods and opens the door. Mycroft enters and the man in black steps out. The cell door closes a heavy metallic thud and Moriarty heaves a sigh.

“No, no, no, _no_. I don’t want you. I want your brother.”

“My brother isn’t here. I am.”

“Where is he? Away with Johnny boy?”

Mycroft keeps his mouth firmly shut but a knowing grin flashes across Moriarty’s face anyway.

“I’m going to have to tell Daddy,” he says. “An Angel and an Earthian? It can’t be allowed to continue. It just can’t.”

Mycroft bites down on the fear and anger Moriarty’s words evoke.

“You wanted to see my brother to tell him _that_?” he asks.

“No!” Moriarty tries to surge up from his chair. Finding he can’t, he falls back. “I want Sherlock. He’s the key. Not as clever as you or me - obviously - but he’s got a touch of the Devil in him, hasn’t he? Loves upsetting the apple-cart.”

“My brother,” Mycroft says, “is Heaven’s loyal servant.”

“No, he’s really not. He’s been doing his own thing again, finding out all kinds of nasty secrets. We would make such a team, him and me. Can you imagine it?”

Mycroft can and it’s a terrifying prospect.

“You’re wrong,” he says, to chase it away. “Sherlock’s work has been approved by Management. He works for Heaven. There will be no you and him, _ever_.”

____________

John leaves the Cross Keys behind and stomps up the hill in the dark, fists clenched, jaw tight. He’s not getting laid tonight now, not after the row he and Sherlock have just had. He could kick himself. With its roaring fire and relaxed atmosphere, the pub lounge would have been the perfect place to cosy up and get in the mood. Sherlock tried to get them a room with a double bed, for God’s sake! He was clearly expecting more than a chaste ‘goodnight’ before John ruined it.

First - he should never have agreed to Sherlock’s insane plan. Taking Henry up to the Hollow and reactivating his PTSD was stupid, giving him sedatives afterwards unprofessional. John’s going to get struck off if he carries on like this.

And second - he should have listened when Sherlock said what he’d seen in the Hollow had frightened him, instead of dismissing his fear as the result of overdoing things. Bloody hell, Sherlock was sweating and fighting to breathe; his hands were shaking. No wonder he lashed out. And even though it hurt hearing Sherlock hiss “I don’t have ‘friends’”, in the circumstances John was an idiot to have taken his words so much to heart. He should have been more conciliatory, offering comfort instead of sniping back.

Up ahead, the lights are flashing again: that same bit of Morse code they were sending earlier. _U.M.Q.R.A._ Over and over again. John’s got no idea what it means but he decides to find out. Doing something useful might help.

The signalling continues as he get closer and John lowers his torch to get a better look.

There are … one, two, three, four, five cars, parked in a loose semi-circle. In the middle, the red one is rocking violently, its suspension squeaking. There's a gaps, then a woman's voice saying, “Oh, Mr Seddon - you’ve done it again,” and in that moment John realizes what’s happening.

They’re doggers - bloody doggers! - come to flaunt their sex lives in public. This would be excruciating enough on a good day; tonight it seems particularly cruel. Looks like everyone’s getting laid but John. He hurries away with as much dignity as he can muster, although it’s probably not much.

He has no idea what he’s going to do now. Not go back to Sherlock, obviously. Not yet, and not without some kind of encouragement: he’s still got some pride. Maybe he’ll just go up to bed and get an early night. All of a sudden, Sherlock’s failure to secure a double bed feels like a blessing.

John’s half-way down the hill again when his phone bleeps. He takes it out. A message from Sherlock. Oh, so he’s talking now, is he? This had better be an apology-

_Henry’s therapist is in the Cross Keys pub. S_

S? Since when has Sherlock signed off as ‘S’? Is this an attempt at matey-ness? John glares at the text. He wants more than that.

_SO?_

_Interview her?_

John blinks. A question mark, from Sherlock? That’s practically begging. But John’s in no mood to make it easy for him.

_WHY SHOULD I?_

Sherlock’s reply is a photo, a photo of a very attractive woman. If John weren’t already besotted- Oh, sod it. A little flirtation is just what he needs to take him mind off the colossal arse he’s in love with.

The flirtation goes well, very well, and soon Louise Mortimer is giving John a few signals of her own: looking up at him from under her lashes, slow smiles, head tilted … He doesn’t need to be a consulting detective to recognise a come-on when he sees one. If would serve Sherlock right … but she deserves better than to be used like that. She’s a nice, intelligent, good-looking woman. And what the hell is wrong with John that that’s no longer enough? He racks his brains desperately for a way of getting out of this without hurting her feelings.

He steers the conversation towards more neutral ground: Henry Knight and his father. Louise pleads patient confidentiality at first, but when John tells her he has a friend with similar problems he’s worried about, she seems close to opening up. Which is when a great, heavy hand slaps down on John’s shoulder, and makes him jump.

It’s Frankland, Sherlock’s fan from Baskerville. John bristles.

“How’s the investigation going?” Frankland asks.

Which puts John right back to square one as far as getting any information out of Louise Mortimer goes. The look she shoots John speak volumes. But Frankland goes on, the bastard.

“Don’t you read that blog?” he asks Louise. “Sherlock Holmes - private detective. This is his P.A. Well, his live-in P.A.” And he winks. He actually winks. The only bright spot is that Louise seems genuinely disappointed at being told that John’s gay. But there’s no point in trying to correct that impression: one look at her face tells John that.

“Why don’t you buy _him_ a drink?” she suggests, after Frankland’s moved off. She stands and hooks her back over a shoulder. “I think he likes you.”

And with that, she’s gone, leaving John alone at the table with two unfinished glasses of wine and half a bottle remaining. If he were Harry, after the night he’s had, he’d drink them. He decides he’d better get upstairs to bed.

Their room is on the first floor, right at the end of the corridor. John uses the landing’s communal bathroom before going in. He was expecting to have the room to himself, but the light flooding in from the doorway shows a figure curled up on the left hand bed.

“Only me,” John says quietly and shuts the door.

Sherlock doesn’t reply. John stares at the too-tight curve of his back. He can’t possibly be asleep. Especially when it’s only just after ten. John crosses to his own bed, eyes narrowed at the back radiating anger at him. Well, two can play at that game. John throws himself down onto his own bed and kicks off his shoes. They fly a couple of feet through the air and land with a satisfying thud. He stands again; strips off his shirt, jumper and jacket, and flings them towards the chair near the desk. The buttons of his jacket don’t make nearly as much noise on the wood as he’d hoped, but his trousers and belt follow quickly after and take care of that.

Sherlock shows no sign of hearing the clatter, but John knows he has. “Night!” he says viciously, and bounces into bed with a loud creak of springs. “Sleep well!”

His sheets are col don his naked skin, Sherlock’s mere feet away. They could be adults about this. Set their stupid tiff to one side and warm each other up.

John licks his lips. “Sherlock?”

His only answer is a soft, and clearly fake, snore.

Right, John decides. _Right._

____________

Sherlock wakes up to find himself alone in the room he’s supposed to sharing with John. He lies still for a while, trying to convince himself that John is simply taking a shower and will be back soon. Fives minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. The door doesn’t open. John doesn’t come back.

Sherlock gets up and showers on autopilot. He tries to think about the case but his mind keeps skittering away, fearful of the monster it can’t have seen, fearful of what’s happening with John.

Back in their room, he dresses and crosses to the window. The Devon morning is damp and grey-green, and he should have handled things better last night. The sun umbrellas over the tables down in the carpark have gone limp in the rain, and where is John?

Caring is not an advantage. Sherlock knows this. Has always known it. His parents taught him that lesson, long ago, when they left him behind; Heaven reinforced it all through school and Universal Training. Sherlock envies Mycroft. Despite the persistence of his fraternal Attachment, he absorbed the philosophy far better. He let it sink into him and freeze his blood. (He’s always been better at everything.) (Never in a million years would he be doing this - staring out of a window listlessly, like a dog waiting for the return of his master.)

This is all John’s fault. Before John, Sherlock’s heart was as frigid and bloodless as Mycroft’s.

A knock at the door yanks Sherlock back from the well of self-pity threatening to drown him. He buttons his jacket and throws back his shoulders. John will not find him moping. “Come in!”

It’s not John. It’s Gary, and Sherlock glares at him. “What?”

“I know you said you were fine with this room-” Hovering in the doorway, Gary hesitates, eyes sliding left and right as he looks up and down the corridor. He takes a step over the threshold. “The thing is, we had a couple leave early, so if you wanted, we could move you a few doors along.” For some reason the man is talking in a low, conspiratorial tone, and as if that wasn’t disturbing enough, he suddenly winks. “Double bed.”

“This room is perfectly adequate,” Sherlock says briskly. “And we won’t be staying long.”

Gary frowns. “Not had a row, have you?” he asks, sounding actually concerned.

Sherlock lets his glare darken.

“None of my business, I know.” Gary holds up both hands and backs out into the hall again. “It’s just your friend, he was very short with Billy this morning. Practically bit his head off when Billy asked if he’d slept okay. Billy thought he was unhappy about the single beds. He gets awful grumpy himself when the elderly aunts put us in twin rooms-”

“There is nothing wrong with the room,” Sherlock snarls and pushes past.

A walk on the moor does a lot to clear his head, and being able to focus on the case eases the ache in his chest. It even allows him to come up with a theory. He flips up his collar in triumph and gets back into the Land Rover. It’s time to visit Henry Knight.

Knight opens his door looking bleary-eyed and disoriented. When he explains that he didn’t sleep well, it gives Sherlock just the excuse he was looking for to barge into his kitchen. They both saw the hound last night but, such a creature cannot possibly exist, there must be another explanation. Top of Sherlock’s list is that they were drugged. The only thing Sherlock’s sure he and Knight consumed that John did not is the sugar in Knight’s kitchen cupboards. He dives into them under the pretext of making Henry a wake-up cup of coffee, and slips a couple of sachets into his own coat for later testing. Then, as Knight bumbles around talking about monsters, Sherlock makes a hasty retreat.

He’s on his way back to the pub when, suddenly, he spots John in the village churchyard, perched on the steps of one of the larger memorials and scribbling notes onto a pad. Sherlock’s heart skips a beat. Raucous birdsong rings out like mocking laughter, but he changes direction immediately, and pushes the wrought iron church gate open, the metal cold and hard under his palm.

John must see his shadow out of the corner of his eye, because he looks up. His expression hardens and he stuffs his notepad into a pocket, averting his gaze.

It’s clearly worse than Sherlock thought. He swallows, shrugs his coat into a more comfortable position - well, a different one, because nothing about this is comfortable - and decides to start with something neutral.

“Did you, uh, get anywhere with that Morse code?” he asks, though his mouth twists as he says it, and he’s as uneasy about making eye contact as John is unwilling.

John shakes his head and gets to his feet. “No,” he replies coldly, and doesn’t walk but marches away - back stiff, arms swinging.

Sherlock hurries after him.

“U.M.Q.R.A. wasn’t it? UMQRA. UMQ-”

“Look, forget it,” John snaps, and for a moment Sherlock fears he made him feel not valued but ridiculed. “It’s …” John’s voice trails off into disappointment. “I thought I was onto something. I wasn’t.”

He begins walking faster, gripping the too-long sleeves of his jacket as if to give his fists something harmless to do.

“How about Louise Mortimer?” Sherlock asks. “Did you get anywhere with her?” because he needs to know.

John’s response is a simple, neutral “No”.

“Too bad,” Sherlock says. “Did you get any information?” It’s a joke and it costs him (the idea of John paying attention to anyone else is intolerable) but he needs John to laugh, or at least favour him with an indulgence smile.

But the smile John gives him holds no indulgence, and no amusement, only irritation. “You being funny now?”

“Thought it might break the ice. A bit.”

Normally, John would hear the apology in Sherlock’s tone. Perhaps he does today but is just determined to ignore it.

“Funny doesn’t suit you,” he says, not even bothering to look back over his shoulder. “I’d stick to ice.”

Sherlock’s glad he’s wearing his coat. He wishes he’d thought to don his scarf too.

“No, wait,” he pleads. “What happened last night … Something happened to me. Something I’ve not really experienced before.”

“Yes, you said,” John replies, unmoved. “Fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said.”

If only John would stop and look at him, really look at him, Sherlock’s sure he could make him understand. He lengthens his stride and grabs John by the arm, spinning him around.

“It was more than that, John,” he says urgently. “It was doubt. I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night.”

“You can’t actually believe you saw some kind of monster …”

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “I can’t believe that. But I did see it, so the question is: how? How?”

“Yes. Yeah. Right. Good.” John nods, but it’s the kind of nod that’s actually a dismissal. “So you’ve got something to go on, then. Good luck with that.”

He’s leaving! Leaving Sherlock to work it out on his own. Something cold settles into the pit of Sherlock’s stomach. He can’t lose John. Not like this.

“Listen, what I said before, John,” he says, haltingly. “I meant it.”

John turns, a challenge in his eyes.

“I don’t have ‘friends’,” Sherlock continues. He bites his lip. “I’ve just got one.”

On the face of it, the words are the simple truth but Sherlock feels as if he’s just reached into his ribcage, ripped his heart out and is standing, holding it out to John, its ripped vessels dripping blood between his fingers.

John pauses. “Right,” he says curtly, and resumes walking.

It wasn’t enough to mollify him entirely but at least some of the tension in his shoulders has gone, a promise that Sherlock will be forgiven soon, if not yet. He breathes a sigh of relief because it’s true: he doesn’t have ‘friends’, not even John. John’s not his ‘friend’. He’s his entire world.

____________

John is torn: Greg turning up put a swift end to what could have been a beautiful moment. Sherlock was gushing - actually gushing praise, and John thinks he could stand Sherlock telling him he’s his only friend, that he’s amazing and fantastic, until the end of time without ever getting tired of it. There was even a moment back there when John thought Sherlock might kiss him in broad daylight.

But, of course, he didn’t and, if John’s honest, the moment was already going downhill before Greg ever got there. Greg’s presence has probably improved things. It’s given John a chance to shine with his discovery that the supposedly vegetarian-only Cross Keys has been buying an impressive amount of meat. It also seems to have made Sherlock a little bit possessive, possibly even insecure, if the way he’s nervously hovering is anything to go by. He’s never appreciated the easy friendship John has with Greg but, down here, when it was supposed to have been just the two of them, he’s acting as if he thinks Greg some kind of threat. So much so that he’s made John coffee - even if, typically, he hasn’t remembered John takes it without sugar. John drinks it anyway. Sherlock’s intentions were good.

Meanwhile, Greg has scared a confession out of the Cross Keys’ owners. The meat was for a fake ‘hound’ - a dog that’s now dead. He looks inordinately pleased with himself as they exit the pub together, leaving the chastened Billy and Gary to contemplate the damage they’ve done to Henry Knight’s mind.

“Right. That’s that, then,” he says, hands stuffed nonchalantly into his trouser pockets. “Catch you later.” He grins. “I’m enjoying this. It’s nice to get London out of your lungs!”

He saunters off, like a man without a care in the world. John turns to Sherlock.

“So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor,” he says.

“Looks like it.”

“But that wasn’t what you saw,” John presses. “That wasn’t just an ordinary dog.”

“No,” Sherlock says. “It was immense. Had burning red eyes. And it was glowing, John. It’s whole body was glowing.” He shudders, then blinks, as if trying to chase the awful memory away. For a moment, John’s worried but Sherlock’s expression turns business-like. “I’ve got a theory,” he says, “but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it.”

John can’t see how that’s going to happen. Not now the Army is wise to them.

“Can’t pull that trick off again,” he warns.

“Might not have to,” Sherlock says. He takes out his phone and holds it to his ear. “Hello, brother dear. How are you?”

John doesn’t hear Mycroft’s response but he can vividly picture the blood draining from his face when Sherlock continues, “Oh, we’re fine. Your boyfriend’s been very helpful. But now it’s your turn.”

“His _what_?” John asks.

Sherlock grins. “I’m going to need to you to be more observant than that, John. Mycroft’s going to get us back in.”

____________

Excitement buzzing warm in his belly, Sherlock sits down in front of the bank of surveillance monitors and puts his feet up on the desk, but tenses with anticipation as John’s neat figure appears onscreen, entering Baskerville’s main lab. It’s time for the experiment to begin and the pulse in Sherlock’s throat starts to thump. A flick of his thumb and John reels back, dazzled by a burst of harsh, white light. Before he can steady himself, Sherlock throws another switch, setting off the lab’s emergency alarm. Even over the monitor, the blare of it is loud; in the lab it must be deafening. Sherlock sees John wince and clamp his hands to his ears. He licks his lips: disorientation achieved, and the sight of John, helpless and entirely at his mercy, make the warm buzz in Sherlock’s belly grow warmer still.

John starts to stagger back the way he came, one arm outstretched to feel his way, and a rush of pride floods Sherlock when he finally makes it. John truly is extraordinary, his Angelic heritage clear. (He’ll get through this.) (There’s no need to feel guilty: he’s made of sterner stuff than Henry Knight. Better stuff.)

At the exit, John swipes his I.D. card through the reader. It fails. (Of course it does. That’s the whole point.) He tries it again, and again, each time more irritated than afraid, and Sherlock takes a moment to savour the strength of the man, before cutting off the alarm and all the lights in the lab. John reels again, and rubs at his eyes, but he takes out his torch and starts making his way slowly towards the lab’s other door. The beam from his torch finds a row of canvas-draped cages. He sweeps it over them briefly, then around the room in general, but the cages keep drawing him back and, on the monitor, he starts to show the first signs of fear. (Mouth breathing, fixed stare.)

The time has come. Sherlock switches on the audio. A harsh rattle sounds in the lab. Silence, then another rattle. But John Watson’s not someone who lets fear rule him. He seizes one of the canvases covering the cages and throws it back with an okay-let’s-be-having-you flourish. It’s empty, of course, and John’s shoulders sag a little with relief. Sherlock watches him take a deep breath (chest out, shoulders back, bracing himself) before uncovering a second cage. It, too, is empty and as John approaches a third cage, his body language is strong, confident. Until monkey inside hurls itself against the bars and shrieks.

John stumbles back, his confidence shaken, and Sherlock sees his face fall as he registers the fact that the fourth cage is open, the metal bars of its door bent and twisted. Sherlock switches to new audio - a low and ferocious growl.

John’s spine stiffens, his chin comes up and he marches back to the main door. He tries his card again, but again, it fails. He takes out his phone and gives it a single tap.

The phone in Sherlock’s pocket buzzes in response. He ignores it.

On the monitor, John mouths a curse and heads for the other door. Sherlock activates more audio: this time, the sound of claws scraping on tiles.

John gasps. Stills. Then makes a beeline for the door, scrabbling to force his ID card into the reader, as Sherlock lets the audio play on: more skittering claws, the sound of something heavy being shoved or dragged, a growl …

John clamps a hand down over his mouth and runs. He flings open a cage door and scrambles inside, hands shaking as he rams home the bolt. They’re still shaking as he pulls the cloth back into place, and disappears from Sherlock’s view.

Not being able to see him is frustrating. Sherlock calls his phone.

“It’s here,” John breathes. “It’s in here with me.”

(It’s worked!) Sherlock’s theory is right. He manages not to clap his hands in glee.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Get me out, Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock can hear the tension in his throat. “You have to get me out. The big lab. The first lab that we saw.”

His voice breaks on a whimper.

“Keep talking,” Sherlock says. “What can you see?”

“I don’t know, but I can hear it, though.”

Sherlock rises from his chair and leaves the audio to run. It’s not far from here to the lab - a matter of minutes, no more.

“Did you hear that?” John gasps, as Sherlock hurries out into the corridor.

“Stay calm,” Sherlock says, walking quickly. “Stay calm. Can you see it?”

“No. I can’t.” John breaks off abruptly, scarcely even breathing now. There’s a moment of nothing, then, “No. I can. I can see it. It’s here.”

Sherlock opens the lab door. Runs across the open space to the cages.

“It’s here,” John says again but his voice is flat now, no longer scared but hopeless.

Sherlock yanks the cover up from John’s cage and opens the door. John is sitting in the far corner, back pressed against the bars, his eyes wide with fear.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks, and steps inside. He lays a hand on John’s shoulder.

John jerks away and hauls himself to his feet.  “Jesus Christ, it was the hound!” he wails. His voice is nasal with tension and the adrenalin makes him pace. “It was here, I swear it, Sherlock. It must -” He glances around in bewilderment and paces some more. “It must … Did … Did you see it? You must have?”

It’s distressing to see him like this, so pale and unsettled, and Sherlock wants to put his arms around him. He reaches out and moves carefully nearer.

“It’s all right,” he says. “It’s okay now.”

When he takes John in his arms, all the tension and mistrust there’s been between them lately will simply disappear-

“No!” John yells, clawing the air in frustration. “No, it’s not! It’s not okay. I saw it. I was wrong!”

Sherlock steps back. “Well, let’s not jump to conclusions,” he says.”What did you see?”

“I told you,” John says. “I saw the hound.”

“Huge red eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Glowing?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. I made up the bit about glowing. You saw what you expected to see because I told you. You have been drugged. We have _all_ been drugged. Can you walk?”

Sherlock’s ready to offer an arm but John’s too proud to accept.

“ ‘Course I can walk,” he says.

“Come on, then,” Sherlock says. “It’s time to lay this ghost.”

He walks off, purposeful. If John can’t be won over by care and concern, then Sherlock will just have to dazzle him instead. But he hears John stumble, knock into something and curse. When he turns, John is rubbing the side of his thigh, teeth gritted.

“I _can_ walk,” he says, defiant, as Sherlock sweeps back.

“Then humour me.” Sherlock raises an arm to wrap around John’s shoulders.

“I am not some bloody damsel in distress,” John says, his mind still resisting, even as his body leans in.

“And I’m not the big bad wolf,” Sherlock says, risking a smile.

John’s lips twitch.

“You sure about that?” he asks. “Those are awfully big eyes you’ve got.”

“All the better to see you with.”

“And your ears. Big.” John lifts a hand to trace the outline of Sherlock’s left ear with his forefinger. “Definitely big.”

Sherlock’s heart is suddenly turning somersaults: John is touching him - not dispassionately, nor out of necessity, but because he wants to. He lets his smile turn wolfish.

“All the better to hear you with.”

“And as for those teeth …” John says, his finger moving from Sherlock’s ear to his lips. 

Sherlock seizes it between his incisors and give the pad a swift, teasing lick with the tip of his tongue.

“All the better to bite you with,” he growls.

“I’m going to keep you to that,” John says.

____________

It’s nothing short of a miracle that Sherlock has had Project HOUND stored away on his mental hard drive all this time. That he was able to access it so quickly, and so usefully, well … John smiles to himself and, despite all that ‘Get out: I need to go to my Mind Palace’ shit, he makes a mental note to shag the genius’ brains out later. Sherlock wouldn’t be Sherlock without his drama queen side.

Sherlock is rattling through an impressively detailed explanation of all that’s happened - how a shelved project involving an experimental deliriant from the 1980s is alive and well and living in Baskerville, thanks for Bob Frankland - when John’s phone rings.

It’s Louise Mortimer. She’s crying.

“You’ve got to find Henry,” she says. “He was remembering. And then … he tried … He’s got a gun. He went for the gun and tried to …”

John is aghast. He’s just seen what that experiment drug drove the test subjects to do. “What?” he asks.

“He’s gone,” Louise says. “You’ve got to stop him. I don’t know what he might do.”

Sherlock is hovering. “Henry?” he asks.

“He’s attacked her,” John tells him.

“There’s only one place he’ll go to,” Sherlock says. “Back to where it all started.”

He’s on the phone to Lestrade immediately, and orders him to Dewer’s Hollow. He tells him to bring a gun.

John has his in the Land Rover, thank God.

____________

Mycroft has a throbbing headache. It’s been a long, hard day in Whitehall and it promises to be an even longer and harder night in Acton Hill. It’s one thing to approve the torture of a fellow Angel; another entirely to have to witness it. He takes a swig of whisky from the flask in his jacket pocket as his driver leaves the motorway, and another as it sweeps in through the prison gates.

A text reporting a Level 4 incident comes through just as Mycroft is bracing himself to mount the stairs to the Governor’s office. It’s a relief to have something else to think about. He opens the message as he walks.

It’s brief: _Explosion. Baskerville periphery. One fatality._

Mycroft’s heart stops. It’s a punishment: ‘Thou shalt not beat and batter’ is surely implicit in ‘Thou shalt not kill’. There are no codicils, no loopholes. The only question is: which one of the two most important people in his life has been taken from him?

The answer is swift in coming. His phone feels like a trapped insect as it buzzes against his palm. The caller I.D. says ‘Lestrade’.

Numbly, Mycroft lifts the phone to his ear.

“Sherlock?” he asks, in a voice nothing like his own.

“Bloody brilliant! Seriously, Mycroft. This one was so weird and twisted and-”

“Are you telling me he’s alive?”

There’s a pause, one that’s long enough to freeze the soft shoots of hope budding in Mycroft’s heart, then Greg laughs.

“Alive? Of course he is! He only bloody solved it. Worked out that there _was_ a hound, but that was just a couple of blokes trying to boost tourism on the back of Henry Knight’s tale. Henry’s tale … poor sod. Bad enough to see your dad murdered right in front of you, and by a _friend_ , but when that friend deliberately sets out to drive you insane so you won’t remember what happened, well, that’s evil. Tragic. God knows what might’ve happened to him if Sherlock hadn’t got involved. Killed himself, most like - or someone else.”

Mycroft swallows around a sudden constriction in his throat and blinks hard to relieve the stinging in his eyes.

“I thought … Oh, Gregory, I thought … I got a message …”

“Oh. Bugger. Sorry. I should have called you immediately, but Henry needed taking care of and Barrymore wanted a debrief. Felt we couldn’t say no, after he’d finally been so helpful.” He pauses. Draws in a breath. “Hell of a way to go. Blown to pieces like that. If Frankland has just stayed where he was, we could’ve got bomb disposal-”

“Frankland? Bob Frankland?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I have to go, Gregory. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mycroft ends the call before Greg can protest. He reaches Governor Meades’ office just as he’s putting his phone away, but the Governor is nowhere to be seen. One of the warders materializes in the doorway.

“The governor got called to the prisoner’s cell, sir,” he says, coming smartly to attention. “There was a bit of an incident, sir.”

“Take me there,” Mycroft says, forcing himself to stay calm.

Moriarty’s cell is as bleak as ever. Moriarty himself is on his usual chair, with Governor Meades in front of him. Mycroft blinks. Sherlock’s name is scrawled on the walls and scratched into the two-way mirror, Sherlock’s  over and over again. The desperate plea of a desperate soul. He was telling the truth, or at least part of it, but Mycroft didn’t believe him.

He turns to Meades.

“All right,” he says, grimly. “Let him go.”

____________

“So, that’s that, then,” John says as he and Sherlock mount the stairs to their room at the pub. “All done and dusted.”

“Looks like it.” Sherlock opens their door and John follows him in.

John checks his watch. “Half past eleven. If we get a move on, we’ll ought to be able to catch the twelve thirty-six. Not going to take us long to get to the station this time of night.”

Sherlock closes the door and leans against it. “No.”

John ducks down and pulls his holdall out from under the bed. “Won’t take me long to pack.”

“No,” Sherlock says again, and this time, John hears the key turn in the lock. Surprised, he looks up.

Sherlock is looking at him from under his lashes, still propped - and wantonly, is the only word for it - against the door. A spike of sheer lust stabs John low in his gut. He clears his throat.

“Something else in mind?”

“A little experiment,” Sherlock says. He peels himself away from the door and shrugs off his coat without once breaking eye contact.

John swallows. “Another one? Is it going to involve me cowering in a cage, hallucinating?”

“A bit mean of me, lying to you about the hound glowing, wasn’t it?” Sherlock toes off his shoes and crosses the room in his socks.

“A bit.”

“I know.” Sherlock bites his lip and looks suitably contrite. “And I want you to forgive me.”

He removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. Then, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, he advances on John.

John’s cock starts to fill.

“I think I should show you how sorry I am,” Sherlock says. He reaches for the button of John’s jeans and pops it through its hole.

“Sounds, uh, like a plan,” John says, letting him.

Sherlock’s fingers are on his flies now, pulling the zip down, and John has to close his eyes for a moment to ride out the relief and hope and excitement surging through him. When he opens them again, Sherlock has sunk to his knees, right there on the hideous floral carpet, and is pulling John’s jeans down his thighs.

“I th-thought,” John says, trying to stop his thoughts from leaping ahead, because Sherlock’s inexperienced, he said he didn’t know how, and _oh, God_ , Sherlock is mouthing John’s cock through his pants, hot and moist and _oh, God …_

“I did some research,” Sherlock murmurs, and even through the cotton of his briefs, John can feel his lips moving. It makes his head spin. He wishes they were nearer a wall, or the door. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to be able to stay upright with-

Sherlock eases the waistband of John’s pants carefully out and down over his erection, then down his legs to join his jeans. John has to put a hand on Sherlock’s head to steady himself. Sherlock looks up at him and smiles.

“I’m fully prepared this time,” he says, and if he sounds stupidly smug about it, John doesn’t care. He’s too busy trying not to shove his cock past that smirk and onto Sherlock’s tongue.

Sherlock grabs John’s buttocks and pulls him so close that his nose bumps John’s erection. He nuzzles it with the tip, side to side, inhaling deeply. John shudders and whimpers and seizes Sherlock’s head with both hands. His hair is soft and silky; the bone beneath, with its curves and ridges, takes John’s breath away. He knows how fragile a cranium is, how little stands between Sherlock’s unique and brilliant mind and a dangerous world.

The movement of Sherlock’s lips against John’s skin chases the thought away. A wet swipe of his tongue chases what’s left of the rest.

“John?”

“Sherlock,” John says. “Yes. Please. Yes.”

Under John’s hands, Sherlock’s head bobs in a nod, and then John’s cock is being peppered with kisses, from root to tip. Kisses and nibbles and licks, and John’s whole being is sinking into the bowl of his pelvis. It’s delicious and terrifying all at once.

“Sherlock-”

“Shhh.”

One of the hands on John’s arse lifts. It comes around to grasp the base of his cock just as Sherlock dips his head and - _Christ_ \- John’s inside. Inside Sherlock’s mouth. If he died now … Sherlock starts moving, and John thinks perhaps he will, from the sheer, incredible pleasure of Sherlock’s tongue, sliding and swirling, teasing and tickling … John’s shaking, he realizes. Breathing in doesn’t help. It just drags in more oxygen to ignite the fire that’s already sparking his nerve endings. All he can do is hang onto Sherlock’s head as he throws back his own, and grip those ridiculous, perfect curls.

Sherlock bobs his head, sucks, pumps the base of John’s cock with his fist, and bloody hell, yes, he’s done his homework, all right. John’s bones are turning to jelly and he needs to thrust. He tries not to. He can’t not. One little stutter of his hips gets past his control and then there’s no stopping him. He’s pushing, rocking, fucking Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock coughs, splutters and pulls back, and John’s an idiot to have forced the pace because now it’s over. Too soon.

Except it’s not. Sherlock inhales noisily, bends his head again and takes as much of John in as the position allows. He sucks hard; moves his head up and down. The hand on John’s buttock claws, fingers digging into the curve of the flesh above John’s thigh. Sherlock’s other hand cups John’s balls, rolls them and tugs, and it’s too much. John shakes, shudders and comes.

Sherlock gives a grunt of surprise, but keeps John in his mouth until the last little shocks of his orgasm subside. Then he gently lets John slip out. John wants to sag to the floor. Just collapse in a stupefied, satisfied heap. But Sherlock is somehow keeping him upright, one-handed. He pushes to his feet and pulls John against him. Gratefully, John lays his head on his chest and trusts in the strength of the arm curled about his waist.

For a while, all he can do is breathe and feel the thud of Sherlock’s heart against his cheek.

“You know,” he says, when he gets his breath back, “I was planning on shagging you senseless tonight.”

John feels Sherlock give a silent laugh. “That was very ambitious of you.”

“I know. But I was going to give it my best shot. Only now …”

Sherlock cups his jaw with a hand and tips his face up to kiss him.

“When I said I was fully prepared this time,” he says, his voice low and husky, “I meant fully prepared for everything.”

It takes John a moment to catch up. “Oh,” he says, and swallows. “Right. Uh, yeah. Okay. Right.”

“Only if you want me to,” Sherlock says, and a little frown appears between his brows. “Do you?”

John thinks about it: Sherlock’s cock in his arse. The point of no return. But if he doesn’t say ‘yes’ now, when they’re here, away from all the demands of London, and safe from interruption by Mycroft or Mrs H, he doesn’t know if he ever will.

He takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

Sherlock’s smile is dazzling. Happy and grateful and agonizingly tender. He steers John towards the nearest of the twin beds, sits him down and helps him remove his shoes, jeans and pants completely. He goes to remove the rest of John’s clothes too, but John stops him.

“I’ll do it. You do your own. I want you naked. Right now.”

Sherlock grins. His shirt is gone in seconds, and by the time John’s got himself out of his jacket and tugged off his shirt and jumper, Sherlock is completely bare. The sight of him makes John’s breath catch in his throat. All that pale skin and lean muscle. All those boyish moles and freckles. That neat, springy triangle of pubic hair and - _God_ \- that glorious cock. It’s long and impressively hard - for _John_. Sherlock’s got a condom in one hand and a tube of lubricant in the other.

John takes another deep breath and lies back. Sherlock shakes his head.

“It’s easier on your hands and knees the first time,” he says, leaning in to kiss John’s mouth again before manhandling him around.

“You could have told me that earlier,” John grumbles. “You know, before you let me-”

“Didn’t know then.” - Sherlock kneels on the bed behind him and starts manoeuvring John into position. - “I’ve been on the internet.”

“Right.” John grunts as Sherlock hauls him forward a bit to balance his weight. “Well, I’m going to just hope you were on some sensible sites. Nothing too fantastical or advanced. Oh!”

John jumps as cold, wet fingers stroke his anus, and he feels his muscles go tight in shock.

“All right?”

He nods, eyes clenched shut - he can to this, he wants to do this - and the stroking continues, along with warm sweeps of Sherlock’s other hand across his shoulders and down his spine. Sherlock pushes forward to lean over him, covering him with his heat and skin, and John lets out a sigh of pleasure. Sherlock kisses the side of his neck, sucks on it, and John feels Sherlock’s fingertip push in. It’s the strangest feeling. It burns a bit, makes John jump, and his muscles tighten and relax in agitating flutters. When Sherlock pushes in deeper, John’s legs give way, his knees sliding further apart on the bedcover. He drops to his forearms to keep himself up and steady. Arse in the air, he thinks. Looking like God only knows what, and …

“Yes!” He’s a doctor, he’s had a prostate exam before but the surge of pleasure takes him by surprise, and he gasps when Sherlock finds the same spot again and sends a bright jolt of electricity race up his spine. John tries not to shake but the position and the sensation makes that impossible. Sherlock shifts slightly to the side, nips at the small of John’s back, pulls out and pushes back in. More fingers this time, but John couldn’t say how many, only that they feel fucking dangerous, and fantastic, and totally weird. If he hadn’t just come, this might be getting him fantastically hard. Then again, if he hadn’t just come, it might be an unbearable intrusion, making him want to fight it or run.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock says.

“What? How could you poss- Oh, never mind. But … if you’re going to do it, just do it. Before I change my mind.”

“D’you want to change your mind?”

“No!”

“Hmm.” Sherlock sounds uncertain as he repositions himself so that his whole body is over John’s once more. “If you do-”

“I won’t,” John says firmly, determined now. “Get on with it.”

Sherlock kisses a chuckle into the nape of his neck. “Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain,” he says, and presses his pelvis into John. The ridge of his erection is hot and hard, and covered with gloop. When did he ..? Oh. John feels the head of Sherlock’s penis slide down between his buttocks, feels the thick, blunt push of it and freezes.

“Breathe,” Sherlock urges, and for the first time, John hears need in his voice. Selfishness. Desire. He breathes in, breathes out and with a long, slow burning stretch Sherlock is inside him. John’s muscles tighten without his volition. He wills them to relax but they tighten again and Sherlock shudders out a little moan.

He’s still for a long time. John thinks about how strange and uncomfortable it feels, but how very, very right. He’s not going to come from this, not tonight; he’s not even going to get hard, but he feels weak with contentment at the sounds Sherlock’s making, at the coiled in excitement he can feel in the tautness of his thighs, the tightness of his grip.

Sherlock moves. A tiny fraction back and a tiny fraction forward. He moans, shivers and holds himself still again.

“Are you … are you ..?” he manages, and John hears him swallow hard.

“I’m fine,” John says. “It’s fine. I thought you said you were fully prepared?”

“I- I’m finding the, uh, practice less straight-forward than the theory.”

“Good,” John says, smiling to himself. “I’m going to take that as flattery.”

“That I can’t remember what I’m supposed to be doing? How is that-?”

“In just about every way possible,” John says.

Sherlock grunts and moves again. Carefully at first, and John remembers to keep breathing. It’s okay. Not particularly exciting, but not painful either, and it’s good to be this close. To know that Sherlock’s getting pleasure from this. And he is: John can hear it in his uneven breathing, and feel it in the ever-faster rocking of his hips. Then, all of a sudden, Sherlock is no longer flush against John’s back, but leaning back, still thrusting and another of those electric jolts catches John by surprise. The noise that he makes is unexpected, enthusiastic and - _Christ_ \- that’s really nice. Better than nice. Fantastic. John’s cock would stir if it could. He just rides out the waves. Moans, pants and sweats, and lets his head hang down.

Sherlock changes position. He’s moving rapidly now, his breath hot and ragged; an arm across John’s chest. He pulls all the way out and plunges back in - once, twice, three times - then his hips are pistoning hard, and John’s got a hand against the headboard to stop himself being shunted right into it. The bed rocks, the bedside table rattles and John knows he’ll still be feeling this tomorrow and maybe the day after, too, but it’s worth it to hear Sherlock gasp like that, to feel the entire length of him shudder.

“John,” he sighs against John’s shoulder blade, when he finally stops coming.

John reaches a hand back and strokes his hair. “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “I know, Sherlock. I know.”

____________

It takes thirty-three minutes to drive from the Cross Keys back to the car rental firm and, to Sherlock's delight, John spends most of them smiling. Better still, he rests his hand on Sherlock’s thigh for a good part of the journey, not trying to be arousing (although, God knows, it’s having that effect), but to be companionable. (And a little bit possessive?) Sherlock flicks a look at him, assessing. (John’s chest is puffed out, his chin high. Yes. Definitely possessive.) (And more than a little proud.) (Which is more arousing still.)

All too soon, the Devon countryside gives way to housing, shops and industrial units, and the traffic starts to slow. They’ve arrived. Time to return the car.

Sherlock’s heart drops: no longer the intimate space of the Land Rover but the soulless crush of a GWR carriage. There’s little hope John will lay hands on him for hours. (But sitting close would be an acceptable stop-gap). Sherlock can almost feel the warm press of John’s thigh already; he imagines slipping off a shoe under the table to caress John’s calf with his foot.

A dark-haired, smart-suited man with a too-bright smile (nervous, ambitious, failed most of his GCSEs) accepts the Land Rover key and thanks Sherlock for his custom. Sherlock resists the urge to take John’s hand as they cross the station forecourt.

To Sherlock’s relief, they find seats next to one another. John takes the window seat, Sherlock the aisle. He sits too close. John looks down at the lack of space between them, licks his lips and grins. (This journey won’t be so bad after all.) (And isn’t there some Earthian adage about pleasure delayed being pleasure doubled?) Sherlock passes the first part of the journey picturing exactly what he’ll do to John when they’re behind 221B’s front door again. He learnt a lot last night and it’s triggered his imagination. There’s so much he wants to try; so much he wants to do.

As the train pulls out of Exeter St David’s, John starts yawning; by Warminster he’s asleep, his head a heavy, precious weight on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock holds himself very still for the rest of the journey in order not to wake him.

When they finally get to Paddington, the queue for taxis is blessedly short. Despite John’s protests that he can manage his own luggage, Sherlock takes charge. As soon as they’ve fastened their seatbelts, he reaches for John’s hand. When John does nothing to resist, he laces their fingers together. It’s good to be on the same page again; good to be going home.

“God - look at the size of that dog,” John says, as the taxi slows to turn into Baker Street.

Sherlock looks. It’s only a mastiff, if a very large one. He shrugs. “If you’ve seen one monstrous hound, you’ve seen them all.”

John’s eyes twinkle wickedly. “It’s not freaking you out?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Hardly. It doesn’t even glow. How about you? Feeling the need to lock yourself in a cage?”

“That wasn’t funny, you know,” John says and, although there’s warmth in his voice, there’s also a bit of an edge to it. “I mean, I understand why you did it but … let’s just say if I ever catch you experimenting on me again-” John frees his hand to give Sherlock’s thigh a warning squeeze. “-you’ll be in serious trouble.”

Under John’s hand, Sherlock’s thigh muscles tense in the most delicious way, all the way up to his groin. He gives John his best wicked smile. “Sounds fun.”

John’s nostril flare and, suddenly, he’s dead serious. “I’m not joking, Sherlock. I’m not your bloody lab rat.”

Sherlock blinks, feeling as if someone’s just emptied a bucket of ice over him. He knew it was too good to be true. He was never going to get away with ‘I told you. It’s not my fault you didn’t believe me’. Not with John.

He swallows, mouth dry. “John-”

“It’s all right. I’m not angry this time, you idiot,” John says, and Sherlock can tell by the way John’s eyes are darting about his face that he must look as scared as he feels.

He nods and forces a smile. A taxi is not the place to discuss this. He’ll do it when they get home.

John pays the fare and Sherlock takes the cases. John opens the front door onto a quiet, still hallway. Hudson’s door remains closed. It’s Wednesday. She’ll be having lunch with Mrs Turner and her married ones. The house feels alarmingly still, like it’s waiting for something.

Sherlock mounts the stairs like an Earthian on his way to the scaffold. Their thirteen steps have never felt so difficult to climb.

The flat is just as they left it - the cigarette packet Sherlock tossed aside still on the floor, Henry Knight’s buffet car napkin still on the table beside John’s chair - but instead of offering a familiar welcome, it seems to taunt. _This is what you had. What you could have had. What you’ve ruined._

“Okay, you’re worrying me now,” John says, prising the suitcase handles from Sherlock’s tense hands. “What’s up?”

He’s so brave, so direct. Sherlock wants to run and hide, but how can he with John looking up at him like that, his eyes warm but troubled, his mouth curving into an encouraging, tentative smile?

Sherlock seizes his courage with both hands. Straightens his jacket. Stands taller.

“There’s something I have to show you,” he says and turns for his room.

John follows, saying, “All right - but I’ve seen it all before. Not that I would mind seeing it all again. There may have been one or two bits of you I haven’t fully committed to memory yet. Some bits I haven’t given the attention they’re due.”

His light-heartedness stabs at Sherlock’s heart. This is how it’s supposed to be between them, not-

Sherlock opens his bedroom door and heads straight for his chest of drawers. He opens the top one, painfully aware of John behind him. (He’s quiet now. Puzzled.) Sherlock removes the envelope containing their DNA profiles from its hiding place at the back and hands it to John.

John’s gaze flicks from Sherlock’s face to the envelope and back again.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Look inside.”

John presses his lips together and Sherlock can hardly breathe as his fingers delve into the envelope and extract the profiles. John lets the envelope fall onto the bed and holds a profile in each hand, his gaze moving slowly between them.

“These are-”

“DNA profiles,” Sherlock says. “Yours and mine.”

“Right.” John nods and stares at the pieces of card in his hands some more. “And you’ve got these because?”

“I took your blood. Months ago. That morning you cut yourself shaving. Remember? I tested it myself.”

John’s jaw clenches. Sherlock sees the muscle in his cheek bulge tight. “Why?”

“Because I needed to know. What you are.”

“What I am?” John echoes, irritation lending a dangerous crispness to his consonants.

Sherlock looks at his feet and nods.

“And what the fuck did these tell you?” John demands. “Besides the fact that I’m a human being? Christ, they don’t even-”

“What?” Sherlock doesn't understand. He steps forward and jabs a forefinger at the top of the profiles. “No, look. Here. And here. That’s not human DNA.”

John glares. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

“It’s Angel, DNA,” Sherlock says, his voice soft, entreating. “John. You’re half-Angel.”

John blinks. Frowns. Looks at the profiles again, and Sherlock waits for the explosion that’s bound to come, the fall-out, his marching orders, his death.

“Nope.” John shakes his head. “Sorry to disillusion you, _angel_ , but I’m a doctor and I’m telling you that both of these profiles are one hundred percent human.”


	14. A Far More Vicious Motivator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the rebellion gathering pace, setting Angel against Angel, Gabriel insists on absolute loyalty from both Mycroft and Sherlock. Meanwhile, Moriarty has plans of his own.

Despite the insanity of Sherlock’s claim, John keeps his tone light, steady. 

“Sorry to disillusion you, _angel_ ,” he says, shaking his head, “but I _am_ a doctor, and I’m telling you that both of these profiles are one hundred percent human.”

Sherlock makes a low sound of irritation. “Wrong! I know what Angel DNA looks like, John, and I did the test myself. Look at them. Really look at them.” 

“I _am_ looking at them,” John says. “And I’m telling you all I can see is human DNA.”

Sherlock snatches the profiles back again. His eyes flick rapidly between them and he blows out a mouthful of air in irritation. “No. No, that’s not right. Why can’t you-” He growls and starts to pace the room. 

John stays where he is. Someone has to. Sherlock’s worrying him now. This is horribly reminiscent of how he was in the pub, after the first time they went to Dewer’s Hollow. He breathed in more of that stuff than John, and what it did to John was bad enough. 

All of a sudden, Sherlock gives a little ‘Ah!’ and comes to a halt in front of his bedroom window. He flashes John a triumphant smile. 

“These are just print-outs,” he says, turning towards the door. “You need to see the samples themselves under a transilluminator. Come on, we’ll go to Bart’s.” 

John steps in front of him. Sherlock can’t really believe he’s a supernatural creature, can he? 

“Sherlock, just … stop.” 

Sherlock takes a step to the side. “It’s true, John,” he says, “I’m an Angel and I’m going to prove it.” 

Again, John blocks Sherlock’s way, saying “No” as firmly and calmly as he can. 

Sherlock’s eyes dart around his face. They’re wild, the pupils dilated, and his nostrils are flaring rapidly, in and out. 

John takes him by the shoulders. “Sherlock …” 

Sherlock’s eyes stop skittering about, and lock onto his. “Please, John. I need you to believe me.” 

“Okay,” John says. “But let’s sit down, yeah?” 

Little lines appear between Sherlock’s brows and his mouth quivers. He sinks down onto the edge of the bed, with a long, slow exhale as if all the fight were suddenly draining out of him. 

John sits next to him and takes his hand, stroking the back of it soothingly. 

“ Listen,” he says softly. “We’ve only just got home, and it’s been a demanding few days. Not to mention _nights_ ,” he adds with a smile. “You’re tired. I’m tired. Why don’t we lie down for a bit? Have a bit of a nap? You’ll feel better for a rest.” 

“Oh, John.” Sherlock sighs and shakes his head. “A rest won’t make any difference.” 

“In that case,” John counters, “it can’t do any harm, can it?” He kicks off his shoes and wriggles backwards across the bed to the other side. He stretches out and pats the space beside him. “Come on. Come and join me.” 

Sherlock folds his arms. “I’m not tired. Why would I want to lie down?” 

“I thought you were a genius? Why do you think?” 

For a moment, Sherlock looks confused, then John rolls onto his side, and runs a hand up the length of Sherlock’s thigh. 

Sherlock swallows. “Oh.” 

“Oh, indeed.” John smiles. “Take your shoes off and lie down.” 

“We can’t,” Sherlock says, although his gaze is on John’s mouth now. “Can we? Don’t you need time-” 

“Not shagging.” John reaches out to tug at Sherlock’s waist and pull him closer. “I thought I might … Look, that blow job you gave me last night was phenomenal. Much better than that one I gave you.” John grimaces, remembering the hash he made of it, shocked by the sheer size of an erect penis in something as small as a mouth, and not sure what to do when Sherlock came. “Sex is the one area where I’m supposed to be better than you, right? So, let me try. To actually _be_ better.”

Sherlock licks his lips and eyes the pillows. He’s weakening. 

“ Come on,” John urges and lays a hand on Sherlock’s flies. “All _you_ have to do is lie back and enjoy it.” 

Sherlock blinks. Nods. “I … all right.” 

John grins and gets up onto his knees as Sherlock gets comfortable. As soon as he settles, John unfastens his trousers and pulls them off him; his underpants, too. Sherlock’s cock is already getting thicker, rising up from the dark fuzz of his pubic hair. John wraps his hand around it loosely, getting reacquainted with the heat and the velvet texture of it. Sherlock sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, his body taut with anticipation. A wave of fondness surges up in John’s chest. Sherlock’s so open like this, so innocent and vulnerable, so ridiculously enthusiastic for John’s touch, it hurts - in the sweetest way possible. John leans in and kisses him. Long, slow presses of his lips to Sherlock’s; gentle licks to the soft flesh behind them; the lightest of flicks against Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock kisses him back, gently as first, but with ever more hunger. His hand finds the back of John’s neck and grips, his tongue thrusts into John’s mouth and his body rises up to press against John’s. John’s blood rushes south, Sherlock’s desire the most potent stimulant he’s ever known, but he keeps himself reined in. His cock can swell and throb all it likes: this is for Sherlock, not him. 

He pulls back. Retreats a few inches until he’s straddling Sherlock’s knees, trailing his fingers down the length of Sherlock’s torso as he goes, bumping over Sherlock’s nipples, gliding over muscles, rising and falling over bone. When he speaks, his voice is so thick in his throat, it surprises him. 

“Spread your legs.” 

Sherlock is quick to obey and John kneels between them. He drops his head, supporting his weight with his hands planted on either side of Sherlock’s waist, so that he can butterfly kisses over the flat expanse of his abdomen. Sherlock shivers, and his hands flex on the duvet cover, nails digging into the cotton. John grins, confident now. More kisses, more licks, the tip of his tongue in Sherlock’s navel. Sherlock groans and rolls his hips, the plea for more unspoken but clear. John licks and kisses his way down the crest of Sherlock’s left ileac bone and grazes the right with his teeth. Sherlock bites his lip and breathes out noisily through his nose. 

“John …” 

John shifts to take all his weight on his right hand and, with his left cups Sherlock’s testicles, giving them a gentle, experimental roll. 

Sherlock’s cock jumps against his abdomen, skin stretched so tight, it gleams. 

John sits back on his heels, and gives it a slow, upward stroke. He feels Sherlock quiver; hears the sharp intake of his breath. John’s every instinct is screaming at him to shed his own clothes, and rub up against him; to _keep_ rubbing and pushing, pushing and rubbing until he comes, but he doesn’t. He trembles slightly with the effort of hanging on tight to his self-control, but he doesn’t break. He strokes Sherlock’s cock again, and pulls it out from his body. On the downward stroke, he drops his head and takes the tip of it into his mouth.

Sherlock gives a ragged, broken shout, one hand dropping to John’s shoulder and closing around it desperately like a claw. 

“ _John_ …” 

John responds with a hum, and Sherlock actually shakes. John hums again, and Sherlock’s hips cant up so hard, it drives his cock into the roof of John’s mouth. John splutters, trying to adjust, and Sherlock’s cock springs free. John stares at it in something like awe. The foreskin has pulled right back, the crown is wet with his saliva. He takes the moment to breathe, to think about the smell and taste of Sherlock on his tongue. Spice, musk, pepper, salt. He swallows it all down and goes back for more. 

He tries to remember how Sherlock did it. To flick lightly _here_ . To tease and soothe, then tease again. He’s pretty sure he’s nowhere near as elegant about it, nor so smooth, but Sherlock is moaning, and tossing his head from side to side, eyes closed, neck arched, mouth open. 

John takes him in deeper. Not all the way - he just can’t - but as much as he can manage and bobs his head. Slowly as first, then with a bit more suction. Then faster, mouth tighter until he can hardly breathe. 

“John!” Sherlock’s voice is thin, nasal with need. 

John bobs faster still, even though his jaw is starting to ache. He swirls his tongue, and rolls Sherlock’s balls in his hand. 

Sherlock’s hips come up off the bed. His thighs clamp tight around John’s sides. John gives a long, deep hum and Sherlock comes, his semen a hot, salt-sweet gush into John’s mouth and throat. At the back of his mind, John realizes he was dreading this bit. The first time he’d spat it all out and cleaned his lips with the back of his hand. But now, with Sherlock shuddering beneath him so helplessly, with his fingers hanging onto John’s shoulders like they’re the only thing keeping him from being swept away, John finds he doesn’t mind at all, and he keeps Sherlock in his mouth swallowing around him until, finally, he lies still. 

John moves to lie beside him, breathing hard against the clamorous need of his own erection. He’ll deal with that later. He threads an arm through the gap between Sherlock’s head and the pillow and pulls him close. 

Sherlock rests his cheek on John’s shoulder and gives him a bleary, drunken smile. 

John kisses his forehead. “Better now? Less frazzled?” 

Instantly, John feels Sherlock freeze; sees his smile melt and his eyes narrow. 

“Is that what this was about?” he demands, eyes blazing as he pushes himself up and away. “Drag me into bed to calm me down? You were just trying to distract me?” 

John sits up, too. “I don’t remember you needing much dragging.” 

“That’s because I thought-” Sherlock bites off the rest of his sentence and climbs out of bed. “I’m going for a shower. And then we’re going to Bart’s. You need to see our profiles properly.” 

Hell. This is worse than John thought. What should he do? Humour him? Go with him to keep an eye on him? Or would that be enabling, and only serve to prolong his delusion? 

“Sherlock. Be rational. You can’t possibly think-” 

“Wrong!” Sherlock snaps. “I can’t possibly _stop_ thinking. If that worries you …”

He doesn’t bother finishing his ultimatum. Just walks into the bathroom and slams the door. 

John scrambles out of bed, determined to talk some sense into him, but he’s no sooner got hold of the door handle than the lock beneath it clicks - and before he can try the hall door instead, he hears Sherlock slide the bolt on that, too. Water starts running; the frosted glass door panels grow more opaque still. John shouts Sherlock’s name but gets no answer. 

He’s out of his depth, he knows. His speciality is cardiology, not psychiatry. If only he’d taken that course Sarah suggested when he was working for her. _Oh_ . He takes out his phone. 

“Sarah,” he says when she answers. “Look, could I come round? I’ve got a problem and I think you might be able to help. I don’t mind waiting if you’re busy.” 

Sarah sounds puzzled, but she doesn’t say ‘no’. 

__________ 

Sherlock flings the Path. lab doors open and bursts into the room. The irritation he felt on emerging from the shower to find John had vanished has been building all the way here, and it feels good to hear the wood bang against the metal cabinet at its side.

Molly Hooper, of course, nearly jumps out of her skin. 

“Oh, it’s you,” she says, recovering momentarily only to succumb to blushing and nervous giggles. “Hello.” 

“I need a transilluminator,” Sherlock says, scanning the equipment cluttering the worktops without finding one. 

Molly opens a cabinet and pulls one out. “This for one of your experiments?” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He plugs it in, puts the profiles in and switches it on. The profiles have suffered some damage from handling and storing, but the reading is the same. His own profile is all Angel; John’s half-Angel, half human. 

“DNA from a crime scene?” Molly asks, peering around his shoulder. 

“Something like that,” Sherlock mutters. 

“Are they both suspects?” she asks. 

“What do you see?” Sherlock asks, moving back so that she can take a proper look. 

She leans in. “I don’t know,” she says, hooking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “What am I looking for?” 

Sherlock frowns. “You don’t see anything unusual? Anything glaringly unusual?” 

“No. Sorry. Should I?” 

“Are you even qualified?” 

Her bottom lips wobbles, but her chin comes up. “I was top of my class.” 

A bitter comment about the intellectual capacity of her classmates is on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but he quickly swallows it when he realizes she might yet be able to help. (Although she’ll need wooing now …) He drops his gaze, blinks hard, looks away and looks back again. (Contrition). 

“Sorry.” 

She falls for it instantly. “That’s okay,” she says. “Sometimes I wonder myself.” 

“Don’t put yourself down,” he says, pushing home his advantage. “This place wouldn’t function without you. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just-” He stops and sucks on his bottom lip. (Uncertainty, hesitation). 

“Yes?” 

“I wonder …” 

“Yes?” 

He wrinkles his nose, twists his mouth. (Reluctance, embarrassment). “Could you help me?” 

“What do you need?” 

“Some of your blood.” 

__________ 

The H.O.U.N.D. file makes for uncomfortable reading. Mycroft has nothing against the notion of modifying Earthian behaviour - he would hardly be on this mission, if that were so - but the side-effects of the drug the Indiana team developed are horrifying: paranoia, severe frontal lobe damage, loss of fine motor control, gross cranial trauma, homicidal impulses … Mycroft can hardly believe Bob Frankland was involved, let alone that he’d pursued the research long after it was officially closed down. He rubs at his temples, and screws his eyes tight shut, willing his brain to make sense of it. The Bob he remembers from Universal Training wasn’t the type to go against orders. His record was stainless, his commitment to Heaven’s cause absolute. If he kept working on the deliriant after the Earthian authorities shut the project down, it can mean only one thing: Heaven wanted him to see it through.

Mycroft leaves the papers spread out on the living room table and goes into the kitchen to make coffee. He lights a cigarette as it brews: there’s something he’s not seeing. Perhaps ingesting two stimulants at once will kick his wits into gear. The machine bubbles and hisses, as if angry, and through some strange firing of his synapses, Moriarty’s face flashes into Mycroft’s mind, spitting venom. 

“ _Nephilim shouldn’t exist. They’re dirty, dangerous, forbidden. Everybody knows that. That’s why there are so many cleaners. You, me, Frankland, Adler ... even poor old Stamford … Such a mess. We’re doing our best, aren’t we? But they just keep on coming. Not enough disinfectant, is there?”_

“Oh, God,” Mycroft whispers, horrified. “It was disinfectant.” 

__________ 

Sarah is even prettier than John remembers, her hair impossibly soft against his cheek as she kisses him hello. He might have been happy with her if he’d never met Sherlock.

She closes her office door and sits on one of the patients’ chairs rather than taking refuge behind her desk. John takes the other one, angling it so they can look at one another but not so much that they’re face to face. He’s not sure he’s up to face-to-face. He’s not even sure how to start. 

“How’s Sherlock?” Sarah asks, when he fails to come up with anything. It’s not her fault she thinks that’s a neutral question, and just something to break the ice. 

“Actually, Sherlock’s why I’m here,” John says. He looks at his shoes and cringes inwardly at their lack of shine. Old army habits die hard, and he’d have given them a once-over if he hadn’t been so annoyed and anxious when he left the flat. “I’m worried about him. About his mental health.” 

Sarah gives him a wry smile, and John can see her point. 

He nods. “Yeah, I know. He comes across as mad at the best of times, but I know him, and this is different.” 

“Different how?” 

John feels a blush rising. “You’re going to laugh.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Well, the thing is-” John clears his throat. “-a couple of weeks ago, he, uh, asked me to call him ‘angel’. Not all the time. Just in-” 

“Bed?” 

“-private.” John’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire now. This must be the most ridiculous thing he’s ever done. Sitting here, saying it out loud to Sarah, he feels more like a teenager than a forty-year old man. She must think him an idiot but he sucks in a breath and forces himself to go on. “So I did. I said it. But I shouldn’t have.” 

Sarah’s eyes are dancing with merriment but, give her her due, she doesn’t outright laugh. “Why ever not?” 

“Because now he seems to believe it. That he is one. An angel, I mean. There was a case. We were on a case. On Dartmoor. Gas. Chemical warfare stuff. We all got exposed, but he got a double dose, at least, maybe more-” 

Sarah holds up a hand. “John. Slow down. What happened?” she asks. 

So John tells her. Right from Sherlock wanting to be called ‘angel’ to Henry Knight and his dad’s murder, and then Bob Frankland and Project H.O.U.N.D. 

“I had no idea our side did such things,” Sarah says, when he’s done. 

“Yeah, well they don’t exactly broadcast it,” John says. “You can understand why. Strictly speaking, it was American research, but there were plenty of Brits involved in it.” 

Sarah nods. “With the state of the world, the government thinks we have to do whatever we can to protect ourselves.” 

“No! There are _limits_ ,” John says, hotly. “Or there ought to be. Don’t get me wrong, someone tries to invade us, I’ll be banging on the M.o.D.’s door to sign up again, but this … It was horrible. They tested it on their own people, too - on _soldiers_. A drug that starts by making you extremely suggestible and ends with brain damage, paranoia and murder. Henry Knight’s been sectioned.”

Sarah’s expression is serious, now. “Oh, John,” she says quietly, touching his hand. “D’you think that might happen to Sherlock? Has he done anything? Threatened you?” 

The question - or rather, the answer to it - makes John feel slightly better. He shakes his head. “No. It’s just the angel thing - but what if that’s how it starts? I called him ‘angel’ as a joke, and now he thinks he is one. I call that suggestibility.” A horrible thought occurs and John has to shut against the horror of it. “I couldn’t bear it if he …” 

He can’t even say it, but Sarah understand. She squeezes his hand. 

“You need to get him to an expert. Get him assessed.” 

John barks out a bitter laugh. “Can you imagine him agreeing to that?” 

“Not easily, no,” Sarah says. “You’ll have to persuade him.” 

__________ 

Molly got called down to the morgue an hour ago but now (annoyingly) she’s back (and _hovering_ ). (Doesn’t she have anything else to do?) Sherlock tries to ignore her as he removes her DNA sample from the electrophoresis chamber but being watched so closely makes him uncharacteristically clumsy and he ends up slopping buffer solution over the work top.

It’s all the excuse Molly needs to zoom in with paper towels. 

“I’ll just … Oops! Sorry … just give me a minute and I’ll be out of your way,” she babbles, blotting up the spillage. 

Sherlock suffers the fussing in silence (she’ll be done soon), but even when the work top is completely dry, she just stands beside him, looking up at him expectantly. 

“Is that _my_ DNA?” she asks, breathlessly, as he slides the sample into the transilluminator. “What are you, uh, looking for?”

“Nothing. Just ensuring the equipment is working properly.” 

“Oh,” she says, and out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees her sag a little. 

He puts her profile under the transilluminator and sags a little himself. Molly’s DNA has the same Angelic element as his own and John’s. It makes no sense. Molly’s not a Nephilim. She can’t be. She’s right-handed. 

__________ 

St Paul’s Cathedral opens for morning prayers at seven-thirty. Mycroft arrives at twenty past and stands out of sight behind one of its Corinthian columns. When, at last, the great doors open, he files in with the straggle of early worshippers, amused to think that not a one of them realizes they have an Angel in their midst.

His footsteps echo in the near-empty church as he crosses the chequered marble floor and makes his way to take a seat in the nave, and the chill air makes him shiver. He’s not looking forward to this meeting. Gabriel is surely aware of Moriarty’s release by now, and Mycroft has no excuse for it. Questions of morality are Heaven’s concern, not his. He looks towards the gilded altar and folds his hands. He’s not used to going directly to the top - his appeals to God tend to be expressions of frustration - but he prays in earnest now. 

A figure approaches from the side and takes the seat next to him. 

“Good morning, Mycroft,” it says. 

“Gabriel,” Mycroft acknowledges and bows his head. There’s nothing he can do now, beyond await the naming of his sin and Heaven’s merciful sentence. 

“I need to ask you a question,” Gabriel says. “It concerns your brother.” 

Mycroft blinks. This is not what he was expecting. For a second, he’s relieved; then alarmed. 

“What about him?” 

“I’ve been reading the newspapers. ‘Boffin Sherlock Holmes, frequently seen in the company of _confirmed bachelor_ John Watson’. Tell me - is it possible Sherlock has become Attached to his Earthian?”

Mycroft opens his mouth to reply but nothing comes out. This is the moment he’s been waiting for, the perfect moment to announce his marvellous discovery: _Nephilim exist! And John Watson is one!_ But Management already know of the half-breeds’ existence, and have done, not just for years, but for _decades_. Sherlock’s case on Baskerville provided proof of that. Consequently, Mycroft’s only recourse in the face of Gabriel’s accusation is incredulous laughter and so he laughs, a bright, brittle sound that bounces off the cathedral walls like shrapnel. Heads turns and disapproving glances are aimed his way. He falls silent and schools his features into an expression of utter sincerity.

“ No, Gabriel. _No_ . Absolutely not.” 

Gabriel searches his face. It’s excruciating but Mycroft holds his gaze and keeps his chin raised, and eventually the Arch nods. 

“I hope you are right,” he says, tightly. “In this time of rebellion, we need to know whom we can trust. Angels are either with us or against us. Do you understand?” 

Mycroft assures him that he does. 

“This is a fight we cannot afford to lose,” Gabriel continues, his face grim. “An Angel’s loyalties can only be to Heaven. If not … If your brother’s are divided, he will leave us no choice. Extreme measures will be taken.” 

“How can he prove himself?” Mycroft asks quickly. “How can _I_?”

“You have played your part already,” Gabriel says. “In setting Moriarty free, you have given him not just enough rope to hang himself, but enough to hang his fellow rebels as well - the _entire_ order. It is up to Sherlock now. Do not think us ungrateful for your service, but you lack his gift for investigation and deduction. He will devote himself entirely to tracking every last one of them down.”

Mycroft nods. He knows persuading Sherlock won’t be easy, but he _will_ find a way. 

__________ 

To John’s mind, Friday night - the end of the working week - calls for a celebration of some kind. Well, that’s what he’s decided to tell himself about this little foray into Chinese cooking. It’s a shame he’s so massively under-prepared. There’s only a couple of teaspoons of soy sauce left in the bottle, the ginger has gone stringy and he forgot to buy fresh coriander on the way home. He’s beginning to think he’d have been better ordering a takeaway, especially since he has no idea when - or even _if_ \- Sherlock will be home. He’s thrown himself into work with even more single-minded obsession than usual lately, and hasn’t told John much about it beyond saying that a banker had gone missing and the case was too boring to involve John in. 

John wishes Sherlock weren't working at all: he's not certain that the Baskerville drug is out of his system. But every time he suggests seeing someone 'just to be on the safe side', Sherlock takes on another case. As if that were somehow proof of his sanity! If Sherlock were anyone else, John would insist on a psychiatric evaluation but, with Sherlock, he's afraid that pushing any harder will result in him doing something _really_ stupid.

A single rap on the door and a “Woo-hoo” announces Mrs Hudson’s arrival. She sniffs the air and winks. 

“Way to a man’s heart, eh?” 

She’s got a tray in her hands, laden with spice jars, bottles and a handful of greenery. 

“Oh, my God!” John says. “Coriander!” 

“I could smell the chicken cooking,” Mrs Hudson says, indicating the breast fillets John’s pan-frying in sesame oil. “And since I’ve got all this stuff in, and Chinese is Sherlock’s favourite-” 

“Mrs Hudson, you’re a lifesaver. Again,” John says as he accepts her offering. “Rice wine, too? Brilliant. I was going to use vinegar.” 

Mrs Hudson wrinkles her nose. “I think Sherlock’s sharp enough just now, don’t you?” 

John sighs. “You’ve noticed.” 

Mrs Hudson pats his arm. “Hard not to, dear. He bit my head off the other morning when I asked him how you were.” 

“Sorry.” 

“ It’s not your fault,” she says, only to frown and shoot him a stern look. “It’s _not_ , is it?” 

John wants to shake his head, to insist it isn’t, but instead he shrugs. 

“Maybe? I was worried about him. I thought he’d been overdoing things …” He trails off. He shouldn’t be telling Mrs Hudson this. If Sherlock reacted badly to John’s suggestion he should see a doctor, John’s pretty sure the living room wall will be riddled with bullet holes if Sherlock finds out he’s been confiding in Mrs H. 

Mrs Hudson gives John a knowing look and nods. “So he’s decided to _really_ overdo things. He’s such a silly boy. How many cases is that recently? Let me see - a kidnapped banker, a stolen painting _and_ that Italian gangster … no wonder you’re in all the papers.”

John groans. “Don’t remind me. The innuendo is bad enough but the press are brutal, Mrs H. Right now, they love him, but when they decide they don’t …” 

“ Maybe you should take him away somewhere?” Mrs Hudson says brightly. “Get him out of the limelight for a bit. Help him relax. If anyone can persuade him to take things easy, it’s you. I’m sure you must be able to think of _something_ …” Her eyes sparkle meaningfully. 

If only, John thinks, but he’s blown that line of attack. Sherlock shies away every time he tries to touch him and accuses him of blatantly trying to use sex as a means of control. 

__________ 

Mycroft is mortified. Despite the adverse effects of Earth’s sub-optimal environment, his anatomy has never failed him before. He can’t understand it. He wants Greg as much as ever and yet his penis is simply refusing to rise to the job. Neither manual nor oral stimulation has had any effect, other than to make him feel inadequate and sore. He prises Greg’s head from his groin, mumbling, “Sorry.”

Greg crawls up the bed on hands and knees and kisses his forehead. 

“Nothing to be sorry for. It happens.” 

“It doesn’t happen to you.” 

“Yeah, well, you work too hard. You need to be kinder to yourself, Mycroft. Take a break. I bet you’ve been living off coffee and fags, haven’t you?” 

Mycroft doesn’t reply. Greg’s right about the cigarettes and coffee, and Mycroft can hardly mention his concerns about Project H.O.U.N.D. 

Greg tenderly smooths his hair back into a semblance of order. “When did you last eat a proper meal?” he asks. 

Mycroft shrugs. 

“Right,” Greg says, and climbs off the bed. “I’m going for a shower and then I’m taking you out to lunch.” 

* 

Three hours, a good steak and a perfectly acceptable bottle of vieilles vignes Devèze rouge later, Mycroft is feeling a lot more confident about his libido. It’s almost eleven now, and he and Greg are walking home together, arm in arm. Cowley Street is deserted, one of the street lights is out and, as they pass underneath it, Mycroft backs Greg up against the wall and, just like that, his penis starts to fill. He feels Greg swallow and angles his hips to press the burgeoning swell of it to Greg’s abdomen. 

“The things I am going to do to you when we get home,” he says, and nips at his neck. 

Greg’s beard grows more quickly than his own, and the satisfying rasp of stubble under his lips makes him harder still. 

“First of all, I think I’ll have you-” 

An almost blinding flash of light makes them both start. The streetlamp is back on again and Mycroft steps quickly back, straightening his jacket and tie. Greg pushes away from the wall and stuffs his hands into his pockets. 

“If they’re spying on us, this is all your fault,” he says, when Mycroft raises an eyebrow at this feeble attempt at looking casual. “Technically, you’re my superior. I was just following … What? What is it?” 

“Step to the side,” Mycroft hisses. There’s something behind Greg, something worrying on the wall … 

“Hang on-” Greg says, but Mycroft catches his arm and pulls him aside to get a better look. 

Painted on the brickwork is a splash of black, red and white paint. Graffiti - and yet so much more than that. A pair of black wings, curved as if in flight. A highly elaborate M and three letters: I.O.U. 

_Join the rebellion, Mycroft ... Don’t be a spoil-sport. Join us. Get something for yourself for a change. I owe you!_

Mycroft staggers as, in his head, memory and understanding finally collide. The ‘U’ stands for Uriel. He feels cold, sick; Greg catches him. 

“Mycroft?" Greg asks, frowning. "Speak to me. Are you all right?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath and moves out of Greg’s supportive embrace. 

“No, Gregory,” he says tightly. “I am not.” 

“Well, you did have most of the wine-” 

“ It’s not the wine!” Mycroft says, far more loudly than he’d intended. He pulls himself together and points. “It’s _that_ .” 

Gregory looks at the wall and frowns. “It’s just some stupid kid, tagging his patch,” he says, with a shrug. “There’s a load of them - all over Westminster. From here right up to Regent’s Park. Pity it’s not Banksy. Would be worth a fort-” 

“Regent’s Park?” 

“Yeah. Why?” Gregory’s manner changes abruptly, and he looks far more alert. Apparently, his policeman’s instinct has finally kicked in. “Is that important?” 

Mycroft nods, just once. “Regent’s Park at the top of Baker Street.” 

“And?” 

“I-” 

It’s on the tip of Mycroft’s tongue to tell him - to explain that I.O.U. has something to do with Uriel, Moriarty and the rebellion, and that Sherlock may be in peril - but then he remembers something else. 

“Yes?” Gregory is all eyes and ears and readiness to help. 

And Mycroft can’t trust him: Gregory has been on Uriel’s side all along. Corrupting him, dragging him into becoming Attached. 

“I need to go to the office,” Mycroft says, and pulls out his phone. “I’ll get a taxi. You can go home.” 

“I could come with you-” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “No, Gregory. You absolutely cannot.” 

__________ 

As if Mycroft didn’t have enough to contend with, the Prime Minister has appointed him to oversee arrangements for the Royal Wedding. He shuffles files around his desktop listlessly. In other circumstances, his task might feel like an honour; as it is, it’s more of a chore. He’s trying to decide whether the Duke and Duchess of Västergötland should fly into Stansted or Gatwick when his phone buzzes.

It’s Greg. Mycroft’s heart jumps against his ribcage but he sternly reminds it that Greg’s not to be trusted and that it needs to be on its guard. 

“Mycroft, listen - I’m probably won’t see you tonight.” 

“All right,” Mycroft says evenly. 

“I’m not even sure I’ll be able to come over tomorrow,” Greg goes on. He sounds excited, out of breath, and Mycroft’s stomach twists. Whatever the outcome of the Rebellion, Greg will be fine without him. He’s handsome, caring, warm- 

“ You’re not going to believe this,” Greg is saying. “I can hardly believe it myself. We’ve got him. Moriarty. And bang to rights this time. He was only sitting on a bloody throne in the Tower of London, wearing the Imperial State Crown and holding the sceptre!” 

The image is a strange and vivid one and, in his mind’s eye, Mycroft sees Moriarty grinning out maniacally from under a confection of velvet, ermine and jewels. 

“And that’s not all,” Greg goes on. “At the same time as kitting himself out like the King of England, he was also masterminding a break-in at the Bank of England and a break- _out_ at Pentonville. And, you know what? He confessed to all of it - and a lot more besides. I’ve never seen a statement like it. Breaking and entering, extortion, blackmail, fraud …”

As Greg’s list of Moriarty’s crimes goes on, and on, Mycroft’s only half-listening. He’s thinking back to Acton Hill, to what Moriarty said when he interviewed him in his cell. 

‘ _What does it tell you when someone who’s eluded capture by your genius brother for over a year suddenly gets caught by an ordinary policeman? It tells you they wanted to be caught._ ’ 

There’s no doubt in Mycroft’s mind that Moriarty wanted to be caught this time, too: but Gabriel wants him free. Free to lead Sherlock to his co-conspirators in the rebellion against Heaven. 

“He’s going away, Mycroft,” Greg says. “For a very long time. But it's gonna mean a hell of a lot of overtime for me until we get him to trial. Sorry.” 

Mycroft gives a noncommittal hum. He’s thinking. He has to find a way of getting Moriarty released, against not only the wishes of the police but also against those of Moriarty. The odds are stacked heavily against him- 

“And we’ll need Sherlock in court,” Greg says. Then adds with a chuckle, “He’s our star witness.” 

The thought is an alarming one: Sherlock abiding by court protocols is as about as likely as him sprouting wings and flying. If the prosecution insists on calling him, he’ll probably end up in a cell himself or- _Oh_ . 

If anyone’s capable of undermining Greg’s apparently water-tight case against Moriarty, it’s Sherlock. 

“Question is,” Greg says, “will he do it voluntarily or am I going to need a summons?” 

Mycroft closes his eyes, the scene already playing in his head: Sherlock being Sherlock: arrogant, offensive, insulting Moriarty’s legal counsel, the jury, the judge … 

“Whichever,” Mycroft says, serenely, “I’m sure he’ll perform admirably.” 

__________ 

Sherlock clenches his jaw. John is being deliberately annoying. ( _Provocative_.) There’s no other explanation for his decision to sit half-dressed in the living room, bare legs crossed and perfect feet on display. Ordinarily, he goes straight upstairs to get dressed after showering. Sherlock grips the eyepiece of his microscope harder. He’s not going to play John’s stupid games, no matter how much he’s missed kissing him, touching him, spending long frantic hours in bed with him … No amount of naked John flouncing around the sitting room is going to push him into sating his painful craving. John used sex against him before; who’s to say he won’t do so again? Even so, Sherlock's glad his lower half is hidden under the kitchen table, and he stays in his seat, even when his phone starts to beep.

It’s John who cracks first. He snaps his paper shut and gets to his feet with a pointed sigh. 

“I’ll get it, shall I?” he asks, without waiting for a reply. 

Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on his microscope slide, and pays John not the slightest bit of obvious attention, but that doesn’t stop him bringing the damn thing over. 

“Here.” 

Sherlock knows he’s lost if he looks up. He doesn’t. “Not now,” he says. “I’m busy.” 

John acts as if he didn’t hear him. “Sherlock-” 

“ Not _now_ ,” Sherlock snaps. 

But John just stands there, still holding out the phone, his breathing suddenly laboured and heavy. 

“He’s back,” he says numbly. 

One glance at the fear on his face and Sherlock doesn’t need to look at the screen to know who he means. 

__________ 

Sherlock stands in front of his open wardrobe, munching on a piece of toast as he tries to decide what to wear. ‘Something suitable for court’ John said, but what would John deem ‘suitable’? Everything Sherlock has is smart, formal, and in sombre colours - well, apart from his shirts. He flirts with the idea of donning the purple one (because John loves it) but finally opts for a black one to go with his charcoal Paul Smith suit. He’s just zipping up the trousers when Mycroft materializes in the bedroom doorway. (Well, of course he does. He probably took Moriarty’s breaking into the Tower of London as a personal insult and he’s definitely at a loose end.)

“I’d ask what you’re doing here,” Sherlock says, sitting down the bed to pull on shoes and socks, “if a) I were interested and b) I didn’t already know. Careful, brother dear, your Attachment to Lestrade is showing. You need to find yourself a hobby. Something else to occupy you when he’s busy with work.” 

Mycroft smiles, eyes cold. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll bear it in mind. But I’m not here for your company.” 

“Well, thank God for that,” Sherlock says. “I’m going out.” 

“I know. Court. Expert witness,” Mycroft says, mouth twisting on the words. He gives a little shudder. “Ghastly. Do try not to let yourself down by annoying the judge. The Earthian judiciary can be terribly sensitive when it comes to respect.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Thank you for your input. Meanwhile, if you could possibly get to the point? John will be back soon and our taxi’s will be here at half-past.” 

“ Ah, yes - _John_ ,” Mycroft says with a smile that instantly switches off. “He’s a problem.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous-” 

“Listen to me. I had a visit - from Gabriel. You don’t need to know the details, but there are serious problems on Heaven. Nothing that can’t be dealt with, but serious enough for Management to regard any suggestion of divided loyalty treasonable. Your conduct - your commitment - must be beyond reproach.” 

“Commitment to what?” 

“To _serving_. Moriarty is the key, and Gabriel has charged _you_ with bringing him down. Him, all those who think like him, or support his cause in any way.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing. Ever since the beginning. And with _John’s_ help - in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m more effective with him at my side.”

“Management don’t see it like that.” 

“ I don’t care. They’ll get what they want but I’ll do it _my_ way.” 

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft sighs and shakes his head. “Don’t you see? You have no choice. Gabriel thinks you’re in danger. He’s given you _four_ Guardians.”

“Well, I’m hardly going to be in danger now, am I?” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten what happened to Sebastian Wilkes? He had three Guardians, and he was murdered. What do you deduce from that?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “Rubbish Guardians?” 

“On the contrary - the best.” 

“They can’t have been very good if-” 

“Don’t be an idiot. Guardians don’t protect individuals. They protect the system.” 

“What? But I thought-” 

Mycroft pulls a rueful face. “So did I, little brother, so did I. I was an idiot, too.” 

Sherlock wishes he could rejoice in this admission, but he’s too shocked. “So, you’re saying …” 

“I’m saying that if they suspect you of Attachment, particularly to an Earthian, they’ll kill him. And if you continue to make them doubt you loyalty, they’ll kill you as well.” 

Sherlock feels himself blinking rapidly. (John? Killed? _NO._ ) 

Mycroft lays a hand on his arm. 

“Until this rebellion is quashed, Sherlock, the best thing you can do for John - for _all_ of us - is to convince Gabriel that he doesn’t matter.”

__________ 

With Sherlock barred from the court room, John’s acting as his eyes and ears, and he can’t believe either when the foreman of the jury announces a verdict of Not Guilty. The judge looks as shaken as John feels but he tells Moriarty he’s free to go, and the court empties in a commotion of outraged chatter and journalists jabbering into their phones.

Outside the Old Bailey, everything seems remarkably normal. Horns blare and traffic rumbles. A young woman with a pony tail poking out from under a yellow helmet cycles past and, on the other side of the street, a middle-aged workman sits on a wall, smoking. It’s all everyday and ordinary, with nothing to suggest that a maniac who decks people out in Semtex is out on the streets again. 

John’s sweating as he takes out his phone, his shirt tight under the armpits and sticking to the small of his back. No matter how hard he tries to slow it, his breathing’s shallow and fast. This is fear. Terror. John remembers the weight of that Semtex vest, and the smell of it. 

And Moriarty’s _free_ . 

Sherlock’s swift to answer his phone but of course he is: he wants to know precisely how many years his arch enemy will spend inside. John’s about to disappoint him. 

“Not guilty,” he says, getting straight to the bitter point. “They found him _not guilty_. No defence, and Moriarty’s walked free.” 

There’s no answer, no gasp of surprise or growl of anger, only the sound of Sherlock breathing. He’s just accepting it. How can a genius be so stupid? Doesn’t he realize what this means? 

“Sherlock?” John says, irritation warring with worry. He’s going to spend every waking hour waiting for Moriarty to strike again. “Are you listening? He’s out. And you _know_ he’ll be coming after you. Sher-”

Their connection drops out into silence. 

__________ 

There is no longer anything to be gained from thinking about Greg; Mycroft is quite clear about that. Fortunately, he has other things to deal with - the Royal Wedding won't organize itself - and he's at his bookcase, consulting his copy of Debrett’s, when Anthea arrives with lunch.

“He’s been released, sir,” Anthea says, crossing to Mycroft’s desk where she arranges the salad and cutlery, careful to avoid the Wedding files. “Can I get you anything else, sir?” 

“What more could I need?” Moriarty has been set free. The plan has worked beautifully. 

Anthea withdraws and Mycroft takes his seat. The salad is a bright tumble of red, orange and green. Under ordinary circumstances, Mycroft would have found it unappetizingly dull but today … He loads his fork. Then stops, his attention arrested by a white envelope, bearing nothing but his name. No address, no stamp. Intuition pings loudly, fear snapping at its heels. Mycroft lays his fork back down and, using the silver knife Anthea provided, slits the envelope open. 

Inside, there’s a single photograph. It shows a figure, dressed entirely in black and holding a gun. It’s the glint of spectacles under the balaclava that give its identity away. The spectacles and the figure’s less than athletic girth. 

It’s Stamford. 

__________ 

Sherlock removes the penknife Moriarty left behind, and the apple impaled on it, making a mental note to instruct Hudson to give his entire chair a thorough cleaning, not just the now sticky arm. (Sticky?) Sherlock turns the apple slowly. Three letters have been neatly scored into its red skin - I O U - but before Sherlock has time to fully process that, he hears someone running up the stairs.

To his astonishment, it’s Mycroft, pink-cheeked and panting, his eyes wild and his hair ruffled out of its usual, pomade-slicked precision. He collapses against the door-frame. 

“ Oh, thank _God_ ,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “You’re safe.” 

A moment later, his jaw drop s and all the unwonted colour drain s from his face. “What’s that?” he asks, staring at the apple. “Where did you-” 

Sherlock brushes aside this bit of typical Mycroftian drama with a wave of his hand. 

“ Moriarty,” he says, airily. (Not going to admit the encounter was troubling with all those mentions of John.) “Helped himself to my chair and my fruit bowl, too - and I’d made him _tea_ ! Luckily, I don’t like apples. Never have.” 

“Just as well, in the circumstances,” Mycroft mutters. (Infuriatingly oblique.) (As ever.) “Have you seen those letters before?” 

“I.O.U.?” Sherlock shrugs. “Here and there. Some Earthian abbreviation acknowledging a debt, isn’t it?” 

A muscle in Mycroft’s cheek t witches and his eyes narrow. “Don’t be obtuse: it doesn’t suit you. I’m here-” Mycroft pauses, closes his eyes. “ - _to save your life_ .” 

The catch in his voice has a strange and unpleasant effect on Sherlock’s chest. It tightens, and the constriction goes all the way up into his throat. Sherlock sniffs. 

“All right, yes,” he says. “I’ve seen it. Heard it. Moriarty kept saying it.” 

Mycroft raises both eyebrows. “Do you know what it means?” 

“A promise. A threat. He said he owes me a fall.” 

Mycroft exhales and his shoulders relax. He nods. “Good.” 

“Good? You think him plotting against me is good?” 

Mycroft smiles. “Don’t be ridiculous. I simply meant it’s better than the alternative.” 

“Which would be?” 

“Him plotting _with_ you.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand. He doesn’t like not understanding. He particularly doesn’t like not understanding when Mycroft so clearly does. 

“Are you going to explain?” he asks, remembering too late that letting his bottom lip jut makes him look like a child. 

“Eventually,” Mycroft says. “But, for the moment, let’s just concentrate on helping you die.” 

Mycroft’s plan is a good one, loath as Sherlock is to admit it: if Moriarty has Heaven’s backing, even if Moriarty doesn’t do it, Sherlock’s going to end up dead. But at least the plan relies heavily on what _he_ brings to the table: his home less network and Molly Hooper. None of it would work without them. Mycroft may be brilliant in theory, but in the real world, it’s legwork that counts. 

“ Are we clear, then?” Mycroft asks. 

Sherlock nods. 

“And are we equally clear you cannot tell John? That you must do everything in your power to ensure he doesn’t suspect a thing?” 

A picture of John’s face floats into Sherlock’s mind; then another, and another. John looking up at him, John smiling, John laughing, giggling, frowning, shouting, scolding, caring. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, only to picture John above him, crawling up the bed on his hands and knees. 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock opens his eyes with a start but the image is still there: John, lowering his head to suck him. (Oh, _God_ .) How can Sherlock even _think_ of deceiving him after that? 

“I don’t see why John can’t help,” Sherlock says. The plea sounds pathetic, even to his own ears, and yet he goes on. “He was a soldier, Mycroft. He has nerves of steel. I’m sure he could fake grief.” 

Mycroft sighs. “And if he can’t? If they realize you’re still alive and come after you, where I can’t protect you? If you die _then_ , it’ll be John’s fault, and he’ll know it. Is that what you want for him? A lifetime of guilt and regret?”

Sherlock shakes his head, defeated. “All right, Mycroft. I’ll do it your way. But you have to promise me one thing.” 

“What?” 

“That you’ll tell him. As soon as you can. I don’t want him to suffer any longer than he has to.” 

Mycroft nods. “I’ll tell him. As soon as I can.” 

“All right, then,” Sherlock says. “Give me five minutes and I’ll write him a letter.” 

__________ 

After so many months in Whitehall, juggling politicians, presidents and prime ministers, Mycroft generally finds lying easy, and yet lying to Sherlock has left a nasty taste in his mouth. On his way back to his office, he stops at Dolly’s in Selfridges for a cream tea. Jam and cream on one of their exquisite scones should do the trick, especially washed down with a glass of Champagne.

Champagne. He watches the bubbles rise and pop, and tells himself he’s celebrating. Sherlock will survive; _he_ will survive. A month from now - or two, or three - the Rebellion will be over. Uriel will be defeated and Moriarty a distant memory. Sherlock will have played his part, and glory will be reflected back on Mycroft. It will not be achieved without cost, but in time Sherlock will heal. When they’re back on Heaven, fêted and admired he’ll forget he was ever on Earth at all, let alone Attached to a Nephilim. Sherlock’s blood runs hot where Mycroft’s runs cold; he’s forgotten Attachment before. He learnt of Sebastian Wilkes’ death without turning a hair.

Mycroft slices through the first of his two scones and spoons a glistening pile of raspberry jam onto the bottom half. Tiny white pips stud the deep red gloss. A dollop of cream, and they’re hidden. Mycroft reassembles his scone and takes a bite, and suddenly the whole world is sweeter. 

After Moriarty is defeated, he’ll get Sherlock out of the country and keep him there until his feelings for John have withered and died. There will be plenty to occupy him. Moriarty has tentacles everywhere, roots of a rebellious organisation that must be ripped up and burnt. By the time Sherlock returns, his heart will be whole again, not torn in half. 

As for John Watson, Mycroft will have to play him very carefully indeed. The Nephilim is determined, even stubborn, and constant in his affections. Even when Sherlock is ‘dead’, he’ll go on carrying a torch for him … unless … _Yes_ . 

Mycroft takes out his phone. 

__________ 

Sherlock’s been weird for weeks. Ever since Moriarty got let off scot-free, in fact. Not that Sherlock isn’t always weird by ordinary standards, but this feels different to John. It’s nothing he can put his finger on, just the conviction that Sherlock’s mind is elsewhere - and not in the normal The-Work-Comes-First kind of way. John knows the cases he’s been dealing with, he’s accompanied him on most of them, and they’ve all been pretty run of the mill. Certainly nothing complex enough to have a genius so totally distracted that even running a hand up his thigh - and then some - in the back of a taxi can’t get bring him back to the here and now. Frankly, it’s an indictment of John’s skills. He wishes that he’d shagged men before now, as well as women. He should be able to offer Sherlock the sort of sex life that daily turns his bones to jelly, the sort of sex life he deserves. Well, John says thank God for gaytube. Whenever Sherlock’s out on his own, being mysterious, John watches a couple of shows and takes notes. He’s going to bring Sherlock back to Earth with a bang. The most spectacular bang the annoying git’s ever had.

Eventually, he feels ready, and sets out for the shops to buy dinner and drink. He’s a doctor; he doesn’t believe that oysters are aphrodisiacs, but he does believe that a nutritious light meal before sex is good for stamina and that a moderate amount of alcohol is brilliant for getting a lover in the mood. 

His wallet is characteristically empty but luckily there’s a Natwest ATM right opposite the deli. He inserts his card and lets his mind drift as the machine runs its checks. He’s not comfortable with the idea of toys. There’s something ridiculous about the idea of inserting bits of plastic into Sherlock’s arse or his own, but there’s nothing like the power of suggestion, and he’s seen plenty of such action on GayTube … He decides he’ll talk dirty to Sherlock tonight. It’ll be interesting to find out if Mr I’m-On-Another-Planet can keep his distant cool through that. 

John’s pleasant little daydream is rudely interrupted by the appearance of a message on the ATM screen. 

_There is a problem with your card. Please wait._

He waits. Another message flashes. 

_Thank you for your patience._

_John_

Oh god, John thinks. Mycroft - again. And right on cue, one of his posh black cars pulls up. John knows there’s no point refusing to get in; the vehicle whisks him off to the Diogenes. 

It’s all a bit ludicrous after that. Apparently, Mycroft’s fellow club members don’t like sound of any kind and asking out loud to see the man who practically kidnapped him has John frogmarched off to his private office, with some bloke’s white-gloved hand stoppering up his mouth. 

Naturally he doesn’t get an apology for the indignity, just one of Mycroft’s ice-cold smiles, plus an invitation to sit. Mycroft’s rooms are so well-appointed and posh, John nearly succumbs to an ingrained reflex to bow or salute or something, but is distracted by the unlikely presence amongst all this old-world grandeur of a copy of The Sun. He scans the lead story as he takes a seat. It’s about Sherlock. Some rubbish about Sherlock being a fake but Mycroft dismisses it out of hand. He’s more interested in telling John about their new Baker Street neighbours: four ‘top international assassins’. John’s plans for a night of lust and debauchery shrivel and die on the spot. He can’t carry on as if everything were normal. Moriarty himself may have vanished again, but these assassins are obviously his people and they’ve taken up residence in Baker Street. 

“ Why don’t you talk to _Sherlock_ , if you’re so concerned about him?” John asks. 

Mycroft looks away. He reaches for his whisky glass but seems to think better of it. 

“Too much history between us, John,” he says, with a sigh. “Old scores. Resentments.” 

Jesus! Sometimes John can’t believe the stupidity of London’s two brightest men. 

“Don’t tell me,” he says wearily. “Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?” 

He’s sure he must be close to the truth because Mycroft shoots him a venomous glare. 

John gives a short, hard laugh and sets Mycroft’s assassin files down. “Finished,” he says and gets to his feet. He’s had enough of this. He’s leaving. 

“We both know what’s coming, John,” Mycroft says, before John reaches the doors. “Moriarty is obsessed. He’s sworn to destroy his only rival.” 

John knows - and it terrifies him. 

“So you want me to watch out for your brother because he won’t accept your help?” he says, not caring if he sounds bitter about that, because he is. Mycroft’s ‘the British Government', according to Sherlock. Why the hell isn’t he _doing_ something?

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Mycroft replies. 

John wishes he had a snappy rejoinder to that, but he’s got nothing. 

He stalks out and goes home. 

* 

Baker Street seems alien as John steps out of the taxi. The light has a quality he’s never seen before. It seems too sharp, too bright, making the angles of the buildings look crisp enough to cut yourself on, and the stone far harder. John stares determinedly at the familiar canopy over Speedy’s front door, trying to convince himself he’s wrong and that nothing’s changed, but it _has_. Passers-by look threatening. The men muttering into their mobiles, the women in sunglasses with overstuffed bags - any one of them could be an assassin.

The door to 221B is open. John hurries towards it and finds envelope, lying on the doorstep. One of those cheap brown ones that come in packs of twenty or fifty, and whose adhesive strip never quite sticks. John picks it up. It’s closed with a thick wax seal. No name, no address. John rips it open - and his day gets stranger still. The envelope is full of something the colour and texture of breadcrumbs. He hurries upstairs. 

And back into blessed normality. Sherlock’s working and, as usual, Greg is standing by looking expectant and Sally Donovan is oozing her trademark resentment and contempt. 

Sherlock looks up at John’s approach. “Kidnapping,” he says, filling him in. 

“Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S.,” Lestrade says. “His children - Max and Claudette, age seven and nine.” 

Sergeant Donovan flashes photographs of a dark-haired girl and a smiling, sandy-haired boy, and John’s stomach turns cold. They’re so young, so vulnerable- 

“They’re at St Aldate’s,” Greg says. 

“Posh boarding place down in Surrey,” Donovan explains. 

Greg turns to Sherlock and goes on. “The school broke up. All the other boarders went home. Just a few kids remained, including those two.” 

“The kids have vanished,” Donovan says. 

“The ambassador’s asked for you personally,” Greg tells Sherlock, as Sherlock gets to his feet and grabs his coat. 

“The Reichenbach Hero,” Donovan sneers. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just runs lightly down the stairs. 

“Isn’t it great to be working with a celebrity?” Greg says, following. 

John’s not far behind. 

__________ 

Sherlock can scarcely believe it. His day started out so unpromising and now this! The school is _wonderful_. A box of treasures. So many clues, so beautifully laid out and readable, that Lestrade might have worked it all out by himself, but Sherlock’s grateful he hasn’t. It gives him a chance to shine, and somewhere to focus his mind other than on what his feigned indifference is doing to John.

Spy books, linseed oil, a perfect footprint trail. Sherlock loves little Max Bruhl: he’s brave, resourceful and with a presence of mind beyond most adults’ fondest imaginings. Sherlock’s sure if Mycroft had ever left him alone long enough to get kidnapped as a kid, he’d have been just like Max and he takes a vicarious pride in the footstep trail revealed by Anderson’s ultraviolet lamp. It shows so much, from the height and gait of the kidnapper to that state of the little boy’s mind. Sherlock drops to one knee and gleefully sets about prising up some of a dried linseed oil footprint from the floor. 

John crouches down beside him. “Having fun?” he asks. 

Sherlock grins. “Starting to.” 

“Maybe don’t do the smiling: kidnapped children.” 

John is a miracle; Sherlock has no idea how he does it. How can he care so much about so many people? Caring about _one_ is exhausting. Sherlock bites his tongue and concentrates on gathering evidence.

* 

At Bart’s, Molly Hooper is easily persuaded to help. As Sherlock tries to identify each of the traces left behind by the kidnapper’s shoe, she scurries about with reference books, enzyme tests and reagents, and generally anticipates his every need. It allows him to settle into an intense, productive rhythm and he finds chalk, asphalt, brick dust and vegetation in short order. The final component proves trickier. It’s a glycerol molecule of some kind but which? Moriarty’s been cunning this time; Sherlock finds himself cursing under his breath. 

He notices Molly’s busy-ness still. 

“What did you mean - ‘I owe you’?” she asks. 

Sherlock can’t believe said it out loud. It’s been going round and round in his head for days. It’s not just a threat but a puzzle, just like the mysterious glycerol molecule. 

John crosses the room to the other side of the bench, and Sherlock watches, his heart suddenly close to breaking. Soon he’s going to lose this - this casual, everyday togetherness. 

“You said ‘I owe you’,” Molly says, claiming back his attention. “You were muttering it while you were working.” 

Sherlock grabs his microscope and stares down it, unseeing. “Nothing,” he says. “Mental note.” 

It’s supposed to shut her up, push her away, but it fails. 

“You’re a bit like my dad,” she says. “He’s dead. No. Sorry.” 

Still looking into the microscope, Sherlock tries again to silence her. “Molly, please don’t feel the need to make conversation. It’s really not your area.” 

It’s as if he hadn’t even spoken, and yet he knows she heard him. He can sense it in her stance, in the waves of gentle but clear-sighted concern she’s sending him. 

“When he was … dying,” she says, stumbling over the word a little but pressing on anyway, “ he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought no-one could see him. I saw him once. He looked sad.” 

“Molly-” 

“You look sad,” she says. “When you think he can’t see you.” 

She means John, and Sherlock can’t help darting a glance at him. Who knows how many more opportunities he’ll get to do so before he has to go away? 

“Are you okay?” Molly asks. “And don’t say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you.” 

“But you can see me,” Sherlock says. This is all wrong. She shouldn’t be able to do this, look into his soul. 

“I don’t count,” she says firmly. “What I’m trying to say is that, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have _me_. No, I just mean … I mean, if there’s anything you need … It’s fine.”

Sherlock is dumbfounded. Until this moment, he was planning to use her whether she was willing or not. Now that she is, it seems wrong. 

“Wh-what-what could I need from you?” he stammers, as another of his certainties falls away. 

“Nothing,” Molly says and shrugs. “I dunno. You could probably say ‘thank you’, actually.” 

Sherlock blinks. She’s nothing like he thought her. Yes, she’s kind and awkward and still stupidly besotted, but inside her, there’s something forged from steel. 

“Thank you,” he says. And means it. 

__________ 

John breathes a sigh of relief. Sherlock is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, finding those kids like that. And just in time, too. John has seen a couple of cases of mercury poisoning in his career and the results weren’t pretty. The thought of that happening to a couple of kids …

But it didn’t. Sherlock saved the day. As usual. Not that Donovan or Anderson are prepared to admit that. John follows Sherlock through from Lestrade’s office to the interview room where Donovan’s been talking to the little girl. Claudette will be different. She’ll probably throw her arms around Sherlock’s neck when she realizes he’s the nice man who saved her. John smiles to himself. That could be pretty funny: Sherlock all stiffly embarrassed, without a clue what to do. John’s glad he’s going to have a front seat. 

But Claudette Bruhl doesn’t shower Sherlock with thanks and childish kisses: she screams, at the top of her lungs. 

“No-no,” Sherlock says, in his gentlest tones. “I know it’s been hard for you-” 

The little girl screams louder still and struggles for escape. Sherlock tries again, but Greg intervenes. 

“Out,” he says, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and pulling. “Get out!” 

Sherlock allows himself to be dragged away and John follows, feeling sick with disappointment on Sherlock’s behalf. He saved that child’s life. That’s something that deserves recognition. John watches sadly as he drifts over to the window, lost in thought, brows pulled together, his eyes sad. 

“Makes no sense,” John tells Greg staunchly. 

Greg shrugs. “The kid’s traumatised,” he says. “Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper.” 

That gives John a glimmer of hope. “So, what’s she said?” 

Donovan gives him a cold, self-satisfied stare. “Hasn’t uttered another syllable.” 

“And the boy?” John asks, clutching at straws. 

“No, he’s unconscious,” Greg says. “Still in intensive care.” 

John flicks a look at Sherlock. He wants to put his arms around him: he looks so miserable. Even Greg notices that. 

“Don’t let it get to you,” he says, aiming for levity. “I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do most people.” 

The joke’s not a very good one, and nobody laughs, but John’s grateful for it all the same and when Greg leads the way out of the room, John goes too. The sooner they’re out of here, the better. John can think of more than one way to bring the smile back to Sherlock’s face. 

__________ 

I.O.U. 

The letters are still vivid in Sherlock’s mind. Moriarty’s got a nerve, daubing it on windows so close to Scotland Yard. 

It’s dark already, and the air cold. John’s waiting on the pavement outside, on Broadway. 

He flags down a taxi and, as Sherlock approaches, turns to ask, “You okay?” 

Sherlock daren’t look at him. “Thinking,” he says, staring straight ahead. One glimpse of John’s sympathy and his distant act will crumble. 

The taxi pulls in. Sherlock senses John move forward to open the door but he stops him. “This is my cab,” he says. “You get the next one.” 

John takes a second before responding (processing, overcoming surprise) to ask, “Why?” 

“You might talk.” 

Sherlock gets into the taxi and slams the door with a sigh of relief. He was so close to losing his nerve but he did it. John will be angry, he knows, and so much the better. The next few days are going to be dangerous for all of them. The last thing Sherlock needs is John at his side. He turns his thoughts back to Moriarty. 

The taxi drives on. 

What does Moriarty want? What does I.O.U. actually mean? Sherlock presses his fingers to his temples and tries to think. 

This effort is derailed by a sudden flash and blast of noise. There’s a little TV screen in front of him and it’s just switched on, playing nonsense about jewellery. Sherlock asks the driver to switch it off, but he doesn’t respond and the nonsense goes on. Shouting at the driver doesn’t help either, and Sherlock’s seriously considering wrenching it free of its wires when a horribly familiar face appears on-screen, grinning like an idiot. 

“Hello,” it says, as all Sherlock can do is stare. “Are you ready for a story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot.” 

How has Moriarty done this? How has he got his face and voice on this, of all screen, in the very taxi Sherlock has chosen out of all the hundreds of others in London …? 

_Oh._ (Stupid. Stupid!) 

He was watching. He’s been watching from the start. The kidnap, the rescue, the visit to Scotland Yard. He was in the building opposite, after all. 

“Even the King began to wonder,” the on-screen Moriarty says, looking pensive. “But that wasn’t the end of Sir Boast-a-lot’s problem. No. That wasn’t the _final_ problem.”

Sherlock’s blood runs cold. 

“Stop the cab!” he yells, then louder, “Stop the cab!” 

The taxi slows. Sherlock jumps out and races up to the driver’s door. 

“What _was_ that?” he demands.

The driver looks at him. _Moriarty_ looks at him,

“No charge,” he says and squeals away. 

Sherlock runs after him for all he’s worth, but the taxi is gone. He stops in the middle of the street, panting and furious - and is almost run down. But someone grabs him and yanks him aside. The man is thick-set and shaven-headed, and Sherlock’s first instinct is to fight but it’s soon apparent that, despite his intimidating appearance, the man isn’t a man at all, but an Angel. A Guardian who’s actually protected him. 

Sherlock offers his thanks and his hand but immediately gunshot rings out - one shot, two, three - and the Guardian falls dead to the ground. 

As Sherlock looks around desperately for the sniper, another taxi comes screeching to a halt and John leaps out. 

It’s weak of him, he knows, but Sherlock’s so grateful to see him. 

__________ 

Mycroft folds the The Daily Telegraph he was reading and sets it down on the table.

“You arrested my brother. You arrested my brother and _then_ let him escape? Tell me, Gregory - how is this keeping his out of harm’s way? Because I’m really not following.”

Greg clenches his jaw and Mycroft sees his hands, hidden from view in his raincoat pockets, ball into fists. 

“If he’d just come with me when I asked-” 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft laughs bitterly. “Have you met him? He’s constitutionally incapable of doing anything just because someone asks.” He rises from his chair and crosses the Strangers’ Room to loom over Greg as a way of underlining his displeasure. “You should have thought ahead. Planned for all contingencies. You should have come to me the moment-” 

“He’d found one of your spy cameras,” Greg says tightly, looking Mycroft directly in the eye. “If it hadn’t been there, he might have been in a better mood.” 

Mycroft presses his lips together. Gregory has a point. 

“I only wanted-” 

“He thought Moriarty had put it there,” Greg says gruffly. “So don’t worry. You’re off the hook. Unlike me.” 

“Ah. Yes. I imagine your superiors are not happy.” 

“You could say that,” Greg says. “Chief superintendents don’t generally enjoy being chinned.” 

“Chinned?” 

“Punched in the face. ” 

Mycroft feels himself gaping. “Sherlock … _Sherlock_ head-butted a policeman?”

Greg laughs and shakes his head. “Not him. John Watson. From what Donovan said, it sounded like he was defending Sherlock’s honour.” 

Mycroft does not like the sound of that one bit. 

“Where is John Watson now?” he asks. “Safely under lock and key, one would hope. And looking at a long custodial sentence.” 

“He’s on the run,” Greg says, looking thoroughly defeated now. “Sherlock fiddled with our comms and managed to get hold of a gun. He said he was taking John along as his hostage but-” 

“You don’t believe him. Neither do I. Those two are a dangerous combination. I need you to bring them in.” 

“I would if I could.” 

“You must have _some_ idea where they are.”

Greg’s grimaces. “Nope. And that’s not all. You know the Guardians he was assigned? That’s two of them who’ve been shot now. We’ve got a witness for one of the incidents, though God knows how reliable they are. Reckoned the killer was a chubby ninja.” 

_________ 

After twenty minutes sitting in the dark, barely speaking, John’s had enough. Over the course of the last two hours, he’s seen Sherlock arrested, landed a punch on a police superintendent and been arrested himself. He’s had a gun fired at ear-splitting proximity and the same, _loaded_ gun put to his head. And by someone who may not be a complete madman but who’d still score pretty low against any sensible measure of sanity. He’s been dragged down dark alleyways and into the path of a bus. To top it all off, the bloke who leapt out to save them was gunned down in cold blood.

And now he’s sitting on a sofa, in the dark, with Sherlock, waiting for Kitty Riley to come home. He wishes he’d never even noticed her newspaper article. 

“Some people like this kind of thing, you know,” he tells Sherlock, fed up with the silence. “Though you probably know more about it than me, thanks to all that research you’ve done online.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Bondage.” 

“What?” John feels Sherlock twist around to stare at him. Pointlessly, since the stupid git wouldn’t put on the light. 

“Handcuffs,” John says, jiggling them. Sherlock’s hand flops loosely against his before it tenses up, and Sherlock pulls away. Pulling John with him, ironically enough, since he’s still doing his distant alien act. “Maybe we should keep these,” he goes on. “Give it a shot. Or perhaps they’ll give us a new set when we get sent to prison. Prison sex is a big thing, I’ve heard.” 

Sherlock says nothing. Just sits there. It’s infuriating. 

“Though you’ll probably get more of it than me,” John says. “You’re very pretty. There’s bound to be dozens of old lags wanting to make you their bitch.” 

“They’d be suicidal to try,” Sherlock says, and his tone is so cold, John believes him. He clamps his mouth shut, and concentrates on the sound of the rain falling outside. 

The occasional car passes, tyres whooshing like rushing water. Further off, John can hear sirens and planes coming in to land. He wishes Sherlock would talk to him and explain what’s going on. 

Eventually a car draws up outside and Sherlock sits up straighter. John does the same. A car door opens and closes, and then there’s a key in the front door lock and footsteps in the hall. The living room light flashes on, blinding. When John’s blinked away the violence done to his retinas, he sees a pretty but pissed off redhead. He blinks again. He knows her. From the court. From the Sun’s front page. It’s Kitty Riley: the woman who’s planning to drag Sherlock’s name through the mud. 

As Sherlock finally deigns to pick the handcuff’s lock, they bitch at each other about ethical journalism, and John finds it hard to take sides. Kitty’s journalism is the basest sort but Sherlock is so patronizing, even John can see the appeal of taking him down. However, John’s loyalties snap instantly back into place when the door opens and Moriarty bumbles in, waffling about shopping. John freezes where he’s standing. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and Moriarty feigns terror, backing away, hands held up in surrender. 

“So _that’s_ your source?” John asks. “Moriarty is Richard Book?”

“Of course he’s Richard Brook,” Kitty says. “There _is_ no Moriarty. There never has been. Look him up. Rich Brook - an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty.”

“No,” John says, barely containing his shock and rage. “He’s Moriarty. We’ve met, remember? You were gonna blow me up!” 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Moriarty babbles. “He paid me. I needed the work, I’m an actor. I was out of work. I’m sorry, okay.” 

For a moment, John almost believes it. He knows Sherlock and what he’s capable of. It actually sounds like something he might do. 

“Sherlock,” he says tightly, “you’d better explain because I’m not getting this.” 

Kitty steps forward, and pushes a folder of papers into John’s hands. He scans it. It’s the background to the story she’s publishing in the Sun. 

“You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis,” she tells Sherlock. “Invented _all_ the crimes, actually. And, to cap it all, you made up a master villain. He’s right here! Just ask him. Tell him, Richard.”

“For God’s sake,” John says. “This man was on _trial_!”

“Yes, and you paid him,” Kitty says, pointing at Sherlock. “Paid him to take the rap. Promised to rig the jury. Not exactly a West End role, but I bet the money was good. But not so good he didn’t want to tell his story.” 

Still in his ridiculous character, Moriarty babbles apologies. John ignores him. 

“So _this_ is the story you’re gonna publish?” he scoffs. “The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty’s an actor.”

“He knows I am,” Moriarty says, looking at Sherlock. “I have proof. Show him, Kitty. Show him something.” 

“Yeah,” John says, unimpressed. “Show me something.” 

Kitty’s got a bag full of stuff. DVDs, papers, newspaper cuttings - all claiming that Moriarty’s a storyteller. _The_ storyteller, according to him. Well, he’s right about that. John’s never heard such a crock of shit in his life. Meanwhile Moriarty has the gall to appeal to Sherlock to confirm it.

“ Just tell them,” he says. “Just tell them. Tell _him_ . It’s all over now …” 

It’s only when Sherlock reacts to this by advancing on Moriarty, snarling, “Stop it. Stop it _now_ ,” that John registers how much importance Moriarty seems to be putting on _him_ believing Sherlock’s a liar.

“Don’t hurt me!” Moriarty cries and runs up the stairs. John tries to follow, but Kitty gets in the way. By the time John and Sherlock have got past her, and forced open the door Moriarty fled through, there’s no sign of him. Just an open window. 

From the street below comes a crash of metal, then the sound of feet, running away. 

__________ 

John exits Kitty Riley’s house, seething. The woman’s an idiot. He rattles her file of lies in frustration.

“Can he do that?” he asks Sherlock. “Completely change his identity? Make you the villain?” 

Sherlock is pacing back and forth, looking like he wants to punch something. 

“He’s got my whole life story,” he says. “That’s what you do when you sell a big lie: you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable.” 

Fear drops cold into John’s stomach and he stops trying to convince himself it’ll be all right: Moriarty’s tricks have already made people doubt Sherlock. When Riley publishes her story, they’ll find it all too easy to believe he’s a fraud. 

Sherlock stops pacing. John looks at him expectantly. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Something I need to do,” Sherlock murmurs, staring off into the distance, mind somewhere else. 

“What? Can I help?” 

“No. On my own,” he says, and strides off. 

Because he’s a dick. A massive bloody great dick. Even when his life’s in danger. No, _especially_ when his life’s in danger. Moriarty’s out there, spinning lies like some kind of lunatic, Irish spider, determined to ruin him and Sherlock’s gone off on his own.

Mum was right. She always warned against putting all your eggs in one basket, and yet John’s done just that. Sherlock is his only real friend. John has let being with him subsume everything and everyone else. He wishes now that he’d suggested the odd night out in the pub to Greg, or welcomed Mike back into his life more warmly. He should have kept in touch with the lads from Sandhurst, from Afghanistan. No-one’s shut _him_ out; he shed them. He’s been an idiot. He gets his phone out but as he flicks through his contacts his despair only grows. Something bad’s coming, they need help and there’s no-one John can turn to.

Meanwhile Sherlock’s brother is practically the British Government with infinite resources and no qualms about using them. Why the hell doesn’t Sherlock go to him? And, more to the point still, why doesn’t Mycroft step in of his own accord? He claims to be the sensible one. Sometimes big brothers have to intervene, uninvited. 

John finds her number and presses Call. Tears threaten behind his eyes at the sound of her old, familiar voice. 

“ Harry,” he says. “ _Harry_ .” 

“John? What’s the matter?” 

Oh God, she’s sober. Still sober. Sober enough to read him like she used to. 

“Does something have to be the matter for a bloke to phone his sister?” 

“What’s wrong?” 

John sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, between his teeth, then sighs. 

“Harry … if someone you knew was in trouble and doing nothing to help himself, it would be all right to go to the one person who could, wouldn’t it?” 

There’s a long silence. “Yes,” Harry says, at last. “But they’re going to resent you like crazy for a long, long time when they find out. Are you ready for that?” 

John considers his options this time. They’re pretty much the same: stand by and let the crazed addict kill themself in pursuit of their fix, or call in the professionals. 

Thanks, Harry,” John says, wishing he could hug her. He’s been too long without the comfort of touch. 

“I haven’t done anything,” she says. 

“Yes, you have,” he answers and they say their good-byes, Harry reluctantly, John hastily. 

There’s somewhere he needs to be; someone he needs to talk to. 

__________ 

It’s been a trying day, and one after which Mycroft feels more than entitled to relax with a single malt in his armchair at the Diogenes, but this plan is derailed by the presence of John Watson in his room, and radiating his special brand of barely held-in fury. Mycroft holds back a smile. It would appear that his machinations have already borne success.

The Nephilim has a sheath of papers in his hand. 

“ She has really done her homework, Miss Riley,” John says, leafing through them. “Things that only someone close to Sherlock could know. Have you seen your brother’s address book lately? Two names: yours and mine, and Moriarty didn’t get this stuff from me. So how does it work, then, your relationship? D’you go out for a coffee now and then, eh? You and Jim? Your _own_ brother and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac.” 

Mycroft schools his expression to convey remorse and concern. He drops into his chair as though John’s accusation had kicked his legs out from under him and sighs his defeat. 

“People like him,” he says, with lots of convincing hesitation, “we know about them. We watch them. But James Moriarty … the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket, the ultimate weapon: a keycode. A few lines of computer code that could unlock any door.” 

“And you abducted him to try and find the keycode?” John asks. 

“Interrogated him for weeks,” Mycroft says: the wrapping of truth around his own big lie; part of the story that, in a few hours from now, will convince the Nephilim he’s seen Sherlock die with his own eyes. “He wouldn’t play along. He just sat there, staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up … I could get him to talk, just a little but …” 

He leaves the sentence hanging, the implication a fat, juicy worm on the end of a hook. Bright-eyed, self-righteous John Watson can’t help but snap it up. 

“In return, you had to offer him Sherlock’s life story,” he says. “So one big lie - Sherlock’s a fraud - but people will swallow it, because the rest of it’s true. Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And _you_ have given him the perfect ammunition.”

It’s funny, almost tragic, how easily the creature is played. 

“John,” Mycroft murmurs, and Watson gets to his feet. “I’m sorry. Tell him … would you?” 

The Nephilim stalks out of the room without bothering to close the door. 

_________ 

Sherlock waits for Molly in the dark. Too much bright light would create a too-normal atmosphere, when he’s aiming for a sense of danger and tragedy. Molly with her heightened sensitivities where he’s concerned will pick up on the mood without even knowing it.

The stage is set. He waits. 

Molly comes bustling out of the haematology lab and through into the one she once shared with Stamford. She’s wearing her coat (ready to go home). (Perfect. That means that everyone else has already shut up shop.) 

“You were wrong, you know,” Sherlock says, as she goes to open the lab door. “You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.” 

She jumps, gasps and turns. Sherlock stares bleakly ahead. 

“But you were right,” he continues. “I’m not okay.” 

Her concern is immediate, unfeigned. “Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Molly-” He turns towards her and walks over. “- I think I’m going to die.” 

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even break eye contact. 

“What do you need?” she asks. 

Molly, the mouse, suddenly reminds him of John: strong, capable, loyal. (Perhaps she is a Nephilim, after all.) 

“ If I wasn’t everything you think I am,” he says, “everything that _I_ think I am, would you still want to help?” 

“What d’you need?” Molly asks. 

“You,” Sherlock says. 

__________ 

Mycroft consumes the last of the salmon and cucumber sandwiches from the reading room’s cold buffet and wipes his fingers clean on a starched white napkin. A most enjoyable meal. Precise but understated. He rises from his chair and crosses to the window to look out into the night. Up there, beyond the moon and the few stars visible in the London sky, lie peace and home. He takes out his phone and calls Sherlock.

Sherlock answers immediately, his words spilling out in a breathless rush. 

“ Mycroft. Good. Is it done? Did you convince him? Is he all right?” 

“He is unharmed, I can promise you that. And totally persuaded that I am the most useless, thoughtlessly treacherous sibling a man could have.” 

“Where is he now?” 

“Did you tell him to meet you at Bart’s?” 

“Of course I did. I know the plan, Mycroft.” 

“Then I imagine he’s on his way to you, all soldierly determination to protect you from the slings and arrows of the outrageous Sun and the Daily Mail. Not to mention Moriarty.” 

“I want him out of the way before that,” Sherlock says. 

“Of course. As soon as you send me the signal, I’ll have Gregory instruct someone to make the call. News of Hudson’s imminent demise is bound to have him scurrying to her bedside.” 

“I think so.” 

“And you have no misgivings about this?” 

Mycroft hears Sherlock swallow; sniff. He pictures him standing to button his jacket. 

“None,” Sherlock says. “No.” 

“I hope that’s not a double negative-” 

“Shut up. I’m fine.” 

“Do you have the squash ball?” 

Mycroft hears Sherlock bounce it by way of an answer. 

“And is Miss Hooper clear on her role?” 

“She’s got plenty of blood and she’s found the body. It’s ready to go. But I’m not going to jump unless I have to. I’m not having Moriarty destroying my reputation completely.” 

Mycroft feels a flicker of unease. It’s essential Sherlock stick to the plan. “Your reputation? Amongst mere Earthians? You surely can’t care-” 

“I don’t. But John does, and I don’t want him shamed. There’s something else I might try.” 

“I doubt it will work. Moriarty’s very thorough. And he doesn’t just want you dead, Sherlock. He wants the world to see you confess.” 

Sherlock sighs. “Allow me to know a little more about the insane criminal mind than you, Mycroft. It _is_ my area of expertise, after all.” 

Mycroft is tempted to sneer but he hesitates. If the plan fails for some reason, and Sherlock dies, he doesn’t want the last words between them to have ended in a row. A sturdy inflatable notwithstanding, a leap from such a height is not without risk; even the Saviour refused to test his Father that far. 

“Good luck, little brother,” Mycroft says, and he looks into his phone as if, by so doing, Sherlock might be able to see the sincerity on his face. 

Sherlock makes an odd little choking sound. 

“Right. Yes. Okay,” he says. “I’ll, um, see you later.” 

Mycroft tucks his phone away and walks over to the reading room fire, where a few coals still burn in the grate. Sherlock’s letter to Watson is in his pocket. He takes it out, tears it into four neat pieces and tosses them into the flames. 

__________ 

After the chill of Mycroft’s reptilian presence, walking into the lab at Bart’s and seeing Sherlock again is like slipping into a warm bath.

Sherlock is sitting on the floor, wedged between the benches and compulsively bouncing a rubber ball. John supposes it’s a better way of dealing with stress than smoking. Or Cluedo. 

“Got your message,” he says. 

The ball-bouncing stops abruptly, although Sherlock’s fingers continue worrying at the little rubber sphere, restlessly twisting and rolling it. 

“The computer code is the key to this,” he says. “If we find it, we can use it - beat Moriarty at his own game. He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook.” Sherlock gets to his feet. “Somewhere in 221B, somewhere - on the day of the verdict - he left it hidden.” 

“Uh-huh,” John says, thinking hard. He hasn’t noticed anything unusual in the flat himself, but he’s not the most observant man in the country. “What did he touch?” 

“An apple. Nothing else.” 

“Did he write anything down?” 

“No.” 

John’s spirits slump - he thought Sherlock was onto something, that there was going to be a flash of his customary brilliance. The lack of sleep over the past few days suddenly hits John hard. He climbs up onto a stool in the corner. 

“I’ll be over here,” he says. “Close my eyes for a bit. If you come up with anything, wake me.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer: he’s too busy fiddling with his phone. John folds his arm on the desk in front of him and lays his head on top of them. Five minutes, just five minutes. That’s all he needs … 

When the sound of a phone ringing wakes him, he knows it’s been far longer than that. His back’s stiff, his eyes are gritty and his mouth’s dried out. He gropes for his phone and hits Answer. 

“John Watson?” a woman asks. 

“Yeah. Speaking.” 

“My name’s Alice Jenkins. I’m a paramedic based at UCLH. I’m afraid I have bad news, sir. About your landlady, Mrs Hudson.” 

John’s thoughts couldn’t have been farther from Mrs H; it takes him a moment to marshal them in her direction. He pushes up from the bench, stretching out his lower back. 

“Er, what?” he says. “What happened? Is she okay?” 

“I’m afraid it’s serious, sir. She’s been shot. She’s an elderly lady; she’s lost a lot of blood. It doesn’t look good.” 

The image is all too vivid and John reels. “Oh, my God.” 

“She’s asking for you, sir, but you’ll have to hurry.” 

“Right, yes,” John says, grateful to have something to do, however pointless, however little. “I’m coming.” 

He turns to Sherlock, heart in his mouth. 

Sherlock is leaning back in one of the lab chairs, feet nonchalantly up on a desk, still playing with his rubber ball. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“Paramedics,” John says. “Mrs Hudson. She’s been shot.” 

Sherlock just raises his eyebrows. “What? How?” 

“Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract,” John snaps. “Jesus. _Jesus_. She’s _dying_ , Sherlock. Let’s go.”

He hurries to the door but, sensing no movement from Sherlock, nor even any interest, turns back. 

“You go,” Sherlock says in reply to his questioning look. “I’m busy.” 

“Busy?” John demands, and his voice sounds low and dangerous, even to his own ears. 

“Thinking,” Sherlock says, leaning on the word as if it’s one John might not understand. “I need to think.” 

“You need to ..?” John can’t finish the sentence. Sherlock can be a hard bastard at times, and no-one’s ever accused him of an oversupply of compassion, but this? John could punch him. “Doesn’t she mean _anything_ to you?” he demands. “You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her.”

Sherlock shrugs. “She’s my _landlady_ ,” he says

“She’s dying! You _machine_.” It’s a feeble insult, considering how angry and disappointed John feels, but it’s bloody accurate. “Sod this,” he says. “ _Sod_ this. You stay here if you want, on your own.”

“Alone is what I have,” Sherlock says, a great, smug gnomic utterance that means nothing. “Alone protects me.” 

John can’t believe he ever thought this man capable of love. He yanks the lab door open. 

“No,” he says bitterly, over his shoulder. “Friends protect people.” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply. 

Never has the forty-five minute ride from Bart’s to Baker Street seemed longer. John’s on the edge of his seat the whole way. His shoulder feels tight; his left hand is shaking. He thought he’d left all this behind. 

He shoves notes at the driver without bothering to count them and leaps out of the cab. He can’t see an ambulance … oh, God. Is Mrs Hudson already dead? 221B’s front door is open. He rushes in. 

And the world stops dead. Mrs Hudson is in the hallway, supervising a workman up a ladder. 

“Oh! John!” she gasps, on seeing him. “You made me jump. Is everything all right now? With the police? Has Sherlock sorted it all out?” 

It’s like that Jezail bullet, all over again. 

John rushes back out into the street: Sherlock’s facing Moriarty on his own. 

__________ 

Down on the pavement, John looks small and frail, his upturned face painfully hopeful. Sherlock swallows. What he has to do next will be the hardest part: lying to John; making him feel credulous and stupid; watching him doubt himself and his judgement. Even the thought of it brings tears to Sherlock's eyes He couldn’t care less about Moriarty or the risk to himself when he jumps: it’s the idea of John’s pain that breaks his heart. But it has to be done. There are still two Guardians watching; if Moriarty’s snipers don’t kill John, the Guardians will.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and forces himself to say the words. “It’s all true. The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.” 

But John is not so easily disillusioned. 

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock,” he says and Sherlock could kick himself for underestimating his loyalty and his strength. “Shut up. The first time we met - the first time we met - you knew all about my sister, right?” 

(Damn.) Sherlock fervently wishes he hadn’t been so eager to impress that day, so determined to recruit the funny little Earthian into his experiment. 

“Nobody could be that clever,” he says. 

But John stands firm. “You could,” he says. 

Sherlock’s throat tightens on a sob and one of his tears makes it all the way to his jaw. He sniffs back the new ones that threaten to follow. 

“I researched you,” he says. “Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.” 

“No,” John says softly, and Sherlock sees him shake his head, but when he speaks again, it’s in his captain’s voice - determined, purposeful - and he starts to stride forward. 

“No!” Sherlock cries, reaching out a hand instinctively to stop him. “Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.” 

The urgency in his tone stops John dead. He backs up and raises his free hand in surrender. “All right.” 

Sherlock struggles to breathe. If he doesn’t get this over with quickly, he’s not sure he’ll have the strength to do it at all. The sight of John meekly standing there, doing whatever he thinks it will take to keep Sherlock alive, is breaking him into pieces. 

“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” Sherlock says, although the words tear at his throat. “Please. Will you do this for me?” 

“Do what?” 

“This phone call,” Sherlock says, “it-it's my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?” 

“Leave a note when?” John asks, valiant to the last. 

Sherlock swallows. “Goodbye, John,” he says, tosses his phone away and jumps. 

__________ 

Mycroft is waiting on Little Britain Street, out of sight of the drama. He’s sanguine about his plan - he was thorough - but he knows he couldn’t have borne the emotion of watching Sherlock fall. He consults his watch. Any moment now- 

Sherlock appears, running towards the car from the direction of Bartholomew Close. Mycroft leans across to open the door and Sherlock jumps in. He looks terrible: his hair matted with congealing Earthian blood, smears of gore all over his face. He also looks miserable. 

Anthea passes him a box of tissues, puts the Jag into gear and drives away. Sherlock silently wipes his temple and forehead, seemingly unaware of the clots of blood in his nostrils and at the corner of his mouth. 

“Everything went according to plan?” Mycroft asks. 

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “I was wrong,” he says. 

“Wrong?” 

“I thought lying to him would be the worst. It wasn’t.” 

“Well, it’s over now, and he’s-” 

“It was having him leaning over me, so close and in so much pain, and I … I couldn’t do anything.” 

“You did what you had to,” Mycroft says. 

“He _touched_ me, Mycroft,” Sherlock says. “Held my hand, took my pulse and he was _broken_. I don’t know … I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

Mycroft pastes on a smile and pats Sherlock’s hand, despite the thin coating of Earthian blood on it. He imagines he’ll have to do a lot of this to start with. 

“Of course he will.” 

Sherlock clasps his hand tight. “Promise me you’ll give him my letter as soon as I’m out of the country. I mean it, Mycroft. The very minute I’m gone.” 

Mycroft inclines his head. “Of course. Consider it done.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to scribblemoose for betaing


	15. The Most Human Human Being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft make some enormous discoveries that change everything.

_Tuesday, 14th June 2011_

Sherlock sits in silence as Mycroft’s Jag threads its way from Little Britain Street to Smith Square. He has no energy for words. John’s face, his agonized pleading … it’s all playing on an endless loop in his head. He clutches the blood-stained tissues in his hand tight. On his own, he might have allowed himself to cry; in Mycroft’s company, he keeps the sentiment threatening to overwhelm him firmly tamped down. Any sympathy now and he’ll fall apart.

London slides past, pointless and grey: the dome of St Paul’s, Blackfriar’s Bridge, the ragged-edged Shard, the slowly revolving, unseeing Eye. Sherlock wonders how long it will be before he sees any of it again; how long it will be before he can get back to John.

Anthea drops them off on Smith Square. The plain brick façade of Mycroft’s house is as elegant and modest as the first time Sherlock saw it. He gives a bitter laugh. How unAttached he was then. 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft hisses. (He’s already over the threshold. When did that happen?) “You’re attracting attention.”

Sherlock blinks, and looks around. (Ah! The woman with the two children.) (They’re bigger now; she’s aged.) Her suspicion of strangers, however, remains undimmed, and she’s blatantly staring. Sherlock itches to ask her what she thinks she’s looking at, then realizes: he’s blood-stained and broken. He follows Mycroft inside.

“Shower.” Mycroft stands at the bottom of his ridiculous wrought iron staircase and points. “Now.”

Sherlock trudges up the thickly carpeted stairs without a word.

In stark contrast to the frills and flounces of the rest of the house, Mycroft’s bathroom is plain and cool: white marble tiles, an enormous glass shower cubicle and, in the middle of the room, a claw-footed bath. Sherlock has a brief fantasy of immersing himself in it, falling asleep and waking up to find today was just a hideous dream. He heads for the shower, shedding bloodied clothing as he goes. All of a sudden, he’s desperate to be clean.

Warm water, Penhaligon toiletries and a change of clothes go some way to lifting his mood. What’s done is done. The only rational approach is to move on. The sooner he dismantles Moriarty’s network, the sooner he’ll be back in Baker Street. With John.

Back downstairs, he finds Mycroft in the kitchen, brewing coffee. Mycroft looks him over and nods his approval.

“I knew the navy Kensington would work. Ten percent silk, ten percent cashmere. How does it feel?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says. “Where are you sending me?”

Mycroft pours two coffees and sits down at the breakfast bar. “Ms Wenceslas knows very little beyond the name of her counterfeit painter but unfortunately, he’s our best lead, so Argentina, I’d imagine. I’m awaiting orders. However, at present, we have more important things to discuss.”

“More important than sucking up to Gabriel?” Sherlock takes his coffee and sips. “You amaze me.”

“Part of the same endeavour, I assure you.” Mycroft’s tone is cool, light, but his smile turns strained. “I need you to tell me about Moriarty.”

“Dead. Blew his own brains out. End of.” Sherlock slurps down more of his drink. He’s been awake for forty-hours now; the caffeine hit is bliss.

“I need to know exactly what he said. All of it.”

At first, it’s a struggle to remember (emotion is clearly worse news for brain work than the smoking ban) but then it all comes back in a vivid, verbatim rush. Sherlock rattles it off and Mycroft listens, eyes half-closed and nodding.

“So I reminded him that I’m not you. That I was prepared to do anything. Even if it meant ending up in Hell with him.”

Mycroft’s eyes fly open. “He made you an offer?

“What? No. No. He accused me of talking big but of being ordinary. He said I was ‘on the side of the Angels’.” 

“Which you are."

“Yes.” Sherlock sighs. “But it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have … if it would have changed anything.”

“No. Indeed. Go on.”

“I told him that being on the side of the Angels didn’t mean I had to act like one.”

“And?”

Sherlock shudders, remembering Moriarty’s long stare. The way it went from searching to approving, then finally adoring.

“He decided I wasn’t ordinary after all. That I was him. He took my hand and blessed me. With tears in his eyes. Then he shot himself in the head.”

Mycroft purses his lips, furrows his brow. “That was it? All of it?”

“There was a lot of blood.” Suddenly, the room seems to sway and Sherlock has to grasp the counter to steady himself.

Mycroft gets to his feet.

“You did very well,” he says. “I know this has been hard on you. Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 14th June 2011 - later_

 

John's lost track of time and place. His last coherent thought was 'No, Sherlock - no!' Now he's been over the toilet vomiting, afraid he'll never stop. Sherlock's dead. Bloodied, broken, dead. With one hand gripping the toilet bowl and the other braced against the cistern, he retches again. But there’s nothing inside him now, and all he brings up is bile. His throat’s sore, his diaphragm's aching and his face is a mess of snot and tears.

He's shaking. It hurts.

“You all right in there?” Lestrade’s voice calls from the hall side of the bathroom door.

John realizes Greg must have brought him home. He doesn’t remember. All he knows is that Lestrade’s the last person he wants to talk to. He was supposed to have been Sherlock’s friend. 

He pulls himself to his feet and crosses unsteadily to the washbasin to rinse his mouth out and splash cold water onto his face. The reflection that looks back at him from the mirror, is grey and drawn. Dead. He wishes he were, too. He’s not strong enough to bear this much grief.

“John?” Greg taps on the door. “John? Talk to me.”

“Go away.”

He dries his face with a towel - a towel that smells all too faintly of Sherlock. John buries his nose in it as a new upsurge of tears chokes him. He can’t go out and face Greg. Not like this. He wants to open the other door instead - the one that leads into Sherlock’s room; to crawl into his bed and never get up again. 

But the bathroom door opens and Greg is standing there, his face tight with worry. John wants to punch him.

They look at each other, unspeaking, and John makes a mental list of all the bones in Greg's body that he could break without even trying - clavicle, mandible, radius, proximal phalanges ...

“John-” Greg’s voice catches. He tries again. “John, mate. I’m so, so sorry.”

John shrugs. Viciously. Greg can stuff his sympathy. John still wants to hurt him. “Why?” he asks. “It’s not like you pushed him, is it? It’s not your fault he jumped.” 

Greg looks down at the floor. “John, believe me - if I’d thought for one minute-”

“Shut up,” John snaps. “I don’t want to hear it. Why are you even here?”

“You collapsed, remember? I brought you back in the car. Mycroft wanted me to make sure you were all right.”

“Mycroft,” John snarls. Another one who’s going to suffer, the minute he's strong enough.

“Look, let’s make a cup of tea, yeah? You’ve lost a lot of fluid-”

“I know I’ve lost a lot of fluid!” John yells, sudden rage overcoming him. “I’m a bloody doctor, for Christ’s sake! Get out.”

“I don’t think that’s-” Greg starts but, at the furious look John shoots him, hesitates. “Look, if you want - but are you going to be all right?”

John clenches both hands into fists. “What do you think?”

Greg has the grace to look embarrassed, and he backs off, out into the hallway. 

“All right. I'll go. But I’m here for you, okay? Whenever. All you have to do is call.” He glances at the bathroom cabinet. “Just don’t-”

John knows what he’s thinking: razor blades, pills. 

“One suicide a day is enough, don’t you think?" he says. "Besides, I wouldn’t give Anderson or Donovan the satisfaction. So you can sleep easy. You’ve done your bit.”

Greg looks lost. “Look," he says, "I know ... The thing is ... You won’t feel like this forever. That's what everyone says..”

John glares at him. What the fuck does 'everyone' know? What the fuck does he know? “Go,” he says. “Go now before I lose it.”

Greg lets himself be shown out and John slams the door behind him. The sound is hollow.

 

__________

 

_Wednesday, 15th June 2011 - 8am_

 

As an employee of some rank with Her Majesty’s government, Mycroft has access to places from which the public is generally excluded. Duck Island Cottage is one such place. It sits on a finger of land that extends into the lake in St James’s park, right opposite the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, ands looks particularly charming today in the early morning light. Mycroft crosses the private wooden bridge and opens the building's tiny front door.

Gabriel is waiting in the daffodil yellow living room, seated in a chair near the leaded window.

“It is done?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies, “and Sherlock is ready to go wherever you send him.”

Gabriel rises from his seat crosses to the room’s little marble fireplace where a watercolour of a honey bee hangs above the mantle. He studies it for a moment before continuing.

“These are desperate times, Mycroft, and Sherlock will be facing great danger. He must, therefore, be able to protect himself. You will issue him with these items.” He holds out a small sheet of paper. “And you will register him for full diplomatic immunity.”

A chill goes up Mycroft’s spine. He knows what that means. He also knows, without looking, exactly what type of items Gabriel wishes him to supply and it turns his stomach.

“Arrest would be preferable, of course,” Gabriel says quickly. “But in some jurisdictions …Well, let’s just say it would be better to cut through the red tape. Besides, we have not forgotten the … rigour of Sherlock’s experiments on Heaven. A lesser Angel might have lost his Reason, being the cause of such suffering, but not your brother. His soul is more than strong enough to withstand the difficulties of his mission. He has our complete confidence. Fear not.”

But Mycroft is afraid: Sherlock since John Watson is very different from the Sherlock of before. He feels things now. But this is something Gabriel cannot know, so Mycroft accepts the list and tries to smile. 

 

__________

 

_Wednesday, 15th June 2011 - 9am_

 

At just after nine the Westminster chimes of Mycroft's pompous doorbell announce Molly Hooper's arrival. She's standing on the doorstep, a canvas bag over one shoulder and looking nervously eager, when Sherlock opens the door. Strands of her ponytail have worked loose and she’s fighting a losing battle to keep them off her face against the morning breeze. 

“You, uh, wanted to see me?” she says.

Sherlock grabs her by the wrist and pulls her indoors.

“This is, uh, very nice," she says, then flushes. "The house I mean, not, uh ...How long has Mycroft lived here?”

“Don’t make small talk, Molly,” Sherlock says. “I’ve told you about that before. Here.” He takes the tissues he used to wipe the blood from his face after his 'suicide' from his pocket and presses them into Molly's hand. “I want you to take these.”

She stares at them. “Um - thank you?”

“I want you to take them to the lab,” he says slowly.”They’re not a gift.”

She smiles in obvious relief.

“I thought … well, I thought you must have really hit your head,” she says, wrinkling her nose at her own stupidity. “What d’you need?”

“DNA analysis.”

“Like before?”

“Yes. It’s for a case.” (Stupid! Shouldn't have said that. Only lies have detail.)

But Molly doesn't notice.

“All right.” She puts the tissues in her bag. “You look good. Better. Normal, I mean. Not covered with blood.”

“Marvellous,” Sherlock mutters and opens the door. “Off you go then. You can text me the profiles. On this number.” He drops a card into her bag.

“I could bring them round-”

“No.” Sherlock propels her out into the street. “Thanks. Bye!”

She stumbles onto the pavement and Sherlock slams shut the door. Time is of the essence: Mycroft could be back at any moment.

It’s almost three hours before Molly texts. There are three attachments. Three different profiles and every one of them shows Angel DNA.

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 16th June - 7pm_

 

When Mycroft quits his office for the day, it comes as no great surprise to see Gregory lurking on Marsham Street, taking shelter from the rain under Caffè Nero’s awning. Gregory has called multiple times since Sherlock’s 'suicide' and sent innumerable texts. Mycroft has ignored them all: he no longer trusts the Fallen. He only wishes he no longer had feelings for him too, as despite his best intentions, he pauses for a moment, leaving his car to idle at the kerb whilst he drinks him in.

Greg looks tired, sad, and far older than his years. He’s taken up smoking again and his raincoat looks as if it’s been slept in. His greying stubble speaks of days without bothering to shave and his obvious grief at Sherlock’s passing tugs at Mycroft’s chest. He wishes he could have been certain of his loyalty - it would have been comforting to have let him in on the plan - but Greg is on Uriel’s side and, as Gabriel said, these are dangerous times. Better to end their association completely, rather than have it drag on.

Mycroft tells his driver to wait, opens his umbrella and crosses the road.

Greg jumps on seeing him and makes a spontaneous move to embrace, then thinks better of it.

“Mycroft. God, it’s so good to see you.”

Mycroft nods once, but doesn’t reply.

“How are you holding up? I’d’ve come round … I did come round, but I didn’t think you’d want … not after … and you weren’t answering your phone.”

“I didn’t have anything to say to you,” Mycroft says as crisply as he can. “Thanks to you, and your officers, my brother is dead. It's left me rather busy. You’ve no idea how difficult a burial is to arrange.”

Gregory hangs his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

He looks miserable, and Mycroft’s heart aches that he can’t comfort him. His brain, however, pushes on.

“Thank you for your condolences,” he says. “The funeral is on Thursday.”

“You mean ... Can I? Would it be all right?”

“I can hardly stop you. Oh wait, I can.”

“If you don’t want me there-” Greg says quickly, but Mycroft cuts him off.

“It’s not a matter of what I want,” he says, “but of whether you truly wish to pay your respects.”

Gregory nods - eagerly, repeatedly - apparently unaware of the rain pattering down on his head.

Mycroft takes the last funeral announcement card from his inside pocket and Gregory is painfully grateful to accept it. Raindrops are sliding down his face now and the whites of his eyes have gone red.

Mycroft grips his umbrella handle tighter.

“I shall expect to see you at the service, then,” he says. “But after that, Inspector, I shall never see you again.”

Greg doesn’t react. He just stands, as still as stone, and Mycroft turns quickly away, sorry than neither of them is made of it.

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 16th June 2011 - 7.30pm_

 

John’s stomach growls, surprising him. He doesn’t feel hungry, but he can’t recall when last he ate. He supposes he should have something and abandons his half-hearted telly-watching in favour of the kitchen.

The table blocks his way to the fridge. The table, covered with Sherlock’s stuff: his experiments, his equipment, his half-drunk mugs of tea. He’s so bloody untidy!

Was.

John grips the back of a chair to steady himself. It’s not fair. Not only is Sherlock stupidly, selfishly dead, but he’s left all his shit around for John to clear up. There are vials full of chemicals that could be acid, alkali - anything! - and one of the conical flasks has cracked.

He opens the cupboard under the sink. Sherlock’s got thick protective gloves around here somewhere … John pulls them out and puts them on but they swamp him and a sob tears at his throat.

Mrs Hudson materializes from nowhere, patting his shoulder gently, like Mum used to do. “There, there, John," she says. "There, there.”

“I-I wanted something to eat,” he says, feeling beyond pathetic. He’s battled insurgents; he’s saved lives. Getting a bit of toast shouldn’t seem so completely beyond him.

“Right,” Mrs Hudson says. “You’re coming downstairs with me. I’ve got a nice cottage pie in the oven.”

John wants to protest but she’s already turning him around and pushing him towards the stairs, and he’s got neither the energy nor the will-power to fight.

Her little flat is everything 221B is not: bright, floral, clean. She sits him down at the table and sets out knives and forks, and the next thing John knows, there’s a plateful of food in front of him: crispy-topped mashed potatoes, minced beef with onion and gravy, a pile of vivid green peas.

“Come on,” Mrs H says. “Eat up.”

John eats. Wolfs it down. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry. So empty. So cold.

Mrs Hudson reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.

“Something came for you," she says and takes a black-edged envelope from the pocket of her apron. 

John’s heart drops. It's from Mycroft. Of course it is, and that stings. John should have been been the one to decide how to say Goodbye. The unfairness of it overwhelms him. He wants to shout, cry, break things.

He gets to his feet. "I need to- I'm sorry, I have to go."

Mrs Hudson nods. "Just remember I'm here, dear. If you need me," she says.

John runs up the stairs. Opens the flat door too hard so that it bangs against the wall. Kicks over the table by his chair. Kicks Sherlock's chair and knocks his music stand to the ground. Sheet music scatters over the carpet - then suddenly John's on his knees, scrabbling to gather the precious pieces of paper back up again. Sherlock's music. Written in Sherlock's hand. The man was a genius in more ways than one and - bugger it - the world needs to know that. John seizes his laptop and opens up his blog.

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 21st June 2011_

 

The brain, John decides, is a bloody stupid organ. His knows that Sherlock's dead - has first-hand memories of him dying - and yet it still interprets every creak of the floorboards, every passing shadow on the walls, as evidence that he's here in the flat, busy messing up the kitchen, or doing stuff for a case. It wouldn't be so bad if, in those moments, John didn't feel such intense relief: in the moments that follow, it's like losing Sherlock all over again.

A week after Sherlock's death, John's still riding the roller coaster of denial and despair, with no way of knowing how much of it there is to come, or how much he can endure. If only he'd seen Sherlock's suicide coming. If only he'd done something, said something ... He should have told him. Expressed all the things he was keeping inside.

John doesn't believe in an after-life or in ghosts, but that doesn't stop him being haunted. The 221B is full of Sherlock - even his empty chair. The leather seat cushion looks as if he's only just got up from sitting there; the scent of his aftershave still lingers in the air.

John rubs at his temple. It's no good. Ella's right. He can't stay here. If he's ever to get over this, he's going to have to move out.

 

__________

 

Friday, 24th June 2011 - 9.30am

 

Sherlock enters Mycroft's living room feeling rather pleased with himself.

“How do I look?” he asks, indicating his funeral attire (black shirt, charcoal suit, black shoes) with a sweep of his hand.

Mycroft tucks his chin in and raises his brows. (Disapproval. Reproof.) 

“He’s not going to see you,” he says.

Sherlock knows: that’s their deal. He's allowed catch a final glimpse of John on the strict understanding that he must not let John see him. The point is: he’ll be in John’s presence, and that’s not something he’ll ever take lightly again.

He plucks at the sleeve of his jacket, uncertain now. “Would the black one be more appropriate?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Mycroft snaps. “It doesn’t matter! What does matter is that you have everything you need for your trip: passports, clothes, currency. Do I need to check your bags?”

“Again? You’ve already done it twice. Once after brushing your teeth last night, and once after breakfast this morning. Toothpaste and butter: they leave remarkably clear traces.”

The skin over Mycroft’s cheekbones pinkens and he makes blustery little noises of self-justification. “I was simply looking out for you," he says. "As ever.”

“Of course you were. How on Earth would I manage without you?”

Mycroft’s nostrils flare and his eyelids flutter (sure signs the sarcasm has got under his skin), but there's no shouting. He merely straightens his coat and takes his umbrella from the stand.

“Your car will be here at ten forty-five precisely. Do not be late.”

“I already am, remember?” Sherlock replies, unable to resist throwing Mycroft's old pun back at him.

“Very funny,” Mycroft says, without even the ghost of a smile. “I won’t see you after the service. The press are bound to want a statement - ghastly - so I’ll say good-bye now. Good luck.”

Sherlock nods. Mycroft nods back. Then he turns and lets himself out of the front door.

Sherlock waits until the purr of the Jaguar’s engine dies away, then runs back upstairs to stuff John’s DNA profile and the handcuffs they shared, courtesy of Lestrade, into the bottom of his rucksack: the metal bracelet once touched John's skin and he’s going to be away a long time, after all.

An hour and a half later, Sherlock is well ensconced in his hiding place, watching his coffin being carried from the church. John is one of the pall-bearers - along with Mycroft, Angelo and Lestrade. He's the shortest of the four, but is walking tall, bearing his share of the weight on a shoulder and a hand. For a moment, it’s too hard to look at him. When Sherlock looks back, his coffin is on the ground and John is standing to attention at Hudson’s side whilst the vicar says his words. 

Slowly, carefully, the coffin is slowly into the ground. More prayers are said and the little gathering of mourners breaks up and moves away. They've barely reached the cemetery gates, before the groundsman has filled the grave in with soil and rolled out turf on top. Start to finish, the funeral has taken less than an hour, and Sherlock’s struck by the efficiency of the ritual, the way everyone’s role in it was so clearly laid out.

But he knew John would feel differently, and that he’d come back once the others were gone. That's what he's been waiting for, and he watches with rising anticipation as John returns to the grave with Hudson at his side. They stand together for a moment, Fallen and Nephilim, united in their loss; then Hudson walks away, leaving John on his own.

John pinches his nose, preparing to speak, and Sherlock holds his breath, straining to hear.

“You- you told me once,” John says, “that you weren’t a hero. Um -” He falters. Inhales. “There were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human human being that I’ve ever known and no-one will ever convince me you told me a lie.”

(Oh, John.) Deep in the pockets of his coat, Sherlock clenches his fists. He wishes it were so. That he really was as human and honest as John thinks him.

John walks up to the headstone and touches it once, then again, as if patting a friend's shoulder.

“I was so alone,” he says, his voice breaking. “And I owe you so much.”

With another deep inhalation, he turns and goes to walk away, but it seems he can't, because immediately he comes back.

“There’s just one more thing,” he says to the grave. “One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this.”

And then he breaks. It's no more than dropping his head to his chest and covering his face with a hand but this is John Watson. John Watson, who’s made of courage and steel; who looks death in the face and fights back. And he’s crying. Over Sherlock’s fake grave. Sherlock bites his lip and wills himself still. He can’t weaken. He has to keep John safe.

John straightens up again, his face impassive. Shoulders back, military-style, he nods a final salute, then it’s About Turn and By the Left, Quick March.

Sherlock watches him go, determined to burn every last detail onto his internal hard drive. It’s only when John's out of sight, that he goes to find Mycroft’s waiting car.

 

__________

 

_Wednesday, 29th June 2011_

 

There are only so many hotel breakfasts John can face, and only so many nights' accommodation he can afford. Which is why he’s currently standing outside of a house in Wandsworth, steeling himself to go in.

It’s a red-brick Victorian villa. Once upon a time, it was probably quite posh, but not any more. Oversized, ill-fitting curtains hang at the windows and what was once the front garden has been given over to weed-infested gravel. In one corner, a large, flowerless rhododendron drips fat raindrops onto black sacks of rubbish. Not exactly salubrious but John’s no better off now than he was when he came back from Afghanistan, and beggars can’t be choosers.

The estate agent - a kid in a cheap, shiny suit - goes up to the battered front door and jingles his keys pointedly. John steps forward. This flat can’t be any worse than the one he saw yesterday, and he’s not going back to 221B, no matter how generous Mrs Hudson is prepared to be about the rent.

The bedsit is better than he anticipated. It’s down in the basement, but there’s no smell of damp. It’s small, but John doesn’t need a lot of space. When he gets himself sorted out, when he gets a proper full-time job, he’ll think again, but for now this will do. 

 

__________

 

_Monday, 26th July 2011_

 

It’s taken Sherlock weeks to track down Elsa Wenceslas’ ‘little painter’. The Rosario address she gave Mycroft’s people must have been from a time when, thanks to Moriarty, his forgery business was thriving. These days, he's living in one of the rougher barrios of Buenos Aires. There's graffiti on the outside of his building; crumbling plaster and loose wiring inside. The lift is broken, and there’s a strongly lavatorial smell on the stairs.

Sherlock makes his way up to the second floor, trying not to inhale. When he knocks on Peralta's door, he’s kept waiting for some time but, eventually, the door opens a crack and an elderly man peers out. Sherlock catches a glimpse of thinning grey hair above a wizened brown face, dappled with liver spots.

"'¿Señor Peralta?” he asks. “¿Señor Mateo Peralta?”

“¿Por qué? Qué deseas?”

“A friend sent me,” Sherlock says, leaning on the word. "He speaks very highly of your brushwork."

It does the trick. Peralta’s watery eyes light up and he throws the door open wide.

“Come in, come in,” he says, switching to English. “I make coffee.”

Sherlock follows him into a reception room-cum-kitchen. It’s sparsely furnished with battered oak sideboards and cheap plastic chairs, but a large antique crucifix stands on the mantelpiece and the walls are covered with paintings: Klimt’s The Kiss, Whistler’s mother, the Mona Lisa ...

“He has a job for me, our friend?” Peralta asks. “It has been so long. I thought he forget me. Or I failed him.”

Sherlock turns to face him and smiles. “He’s dead. Shot himself in the head.”

Peralta staggers and sinks into a chair. To Sherlock’s astonishment, there are tears welling in his eyes. 

“I knew it,” the old man says. “I tell him this will happen. But by the end … So much knowledge, so much responsibility. Too much.”

Sherlock’s skin tingles. (Fascinating!) This is not what he expected at all. He expected to have to threaten the old man. He expected to be bored.

“You were fond of him,” he says, marvelling at the notion. “Of a criminal. A kidnapper, a murderer - and worse.”

Peralta’s eyes narrow. “You’re one of them,” he says, and spits onto his tiled floor. “An ‘Angel’.”

“As was Moriarty,” Sherlock points out.

Peralta gives a bitter laugh. “But you, you dance to their music. Like a dog for scraps. He fought them. He was a hero!"

Sherlock blinks. “I fail to see how dealing in forgeries equates to heroism."

“That was business. For money. You can do nothing without money in this world, and you Angels are very rich. To fight you, he need money. He need to find proof of Heaven’s misdoings-”

“Misdeeds,” Sherlock corrects before he can stop himself.

“Misdeeds.” Peralta nods.

“And did he? Find proof?”

“I cannot say.”

Sherlock considers. He could remind the old man of the immense power wielded by Heaven; hint at a terrible future awaiting his immortal soul; or simply slam him into a wall and apply just enough pressure to his fragile old bones - but there’s no point. It won’t work. This man is a Moriarty fan. Sherlock will have to try something else.

He looks down at his feet. “Can I trust you, Señor?”

“Trust me?”

Sherlock looks up again, his most innocent expression firmly in place (direct gaze, corners of the mouth very slightly down).

“What you said about Heaven … The truth is, I’ve been having doubts myself. If Moriarty knew something, perhaps it would help.”

Peralta leans forward briefly (he wants to believe), then pulls back.

“I cannot. There is one man. He say to me he will come. I must wait. For him.”

(Damn.) “Does this man have a name?”

Peralta nods. “His name,” he says, “is Sherlock Holmes.”

It takes Sherlock several seconds to recover. "Me?" he says. "He wanted you to give the information to me?"

It's Peralta's turn to look stunned. Sherlock takes out his passport and hands it over.

Peralta laughs. "You forget my profession, Señor. I am a forger; I recognize forgery. This says you are English. You are not. You are Angel."

"But I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Prove it," Peralta says and crosses his arms.

"Don't be an idiot. You obviously don't know who Sherlock Holmes is. What proof would you accept?"

"You're getting close," Peralta says and smiles. "Try again."

(Close? Close how?) Sherlock starts to pace. (Moriarty must have given Peralta a description of some kind, but not a physical one ...) Sherlock reviews their conversation, and two elements stand out: 'don't be an idiot' and 'you obviously don't know'.

"I'm the world's only consulting detective," he tries. "I live at 221B Baker Street and my brother is-"

"Your brother. Yes. Señor Mycroft Holmes. The Ice Man, he call him. He call you ..?" Peralta's smile is a smirk now.

"It's not true," Sherlock says. "I'm not."

"Say it," Peralta insists. "Then I will know."

"The Virgin," Sherlock says and closes his eyes. It's ridiculous - he doesn't care what Moriarty thought then or what Peralta thinks now - but it feels like a betrayal. As if his time with John meant nothing.

"Si," Peralta says and gets to his feet with much creaking of elderly joint. "Wait here one moment." 

Peralta disappears into another room, then returns a thick but tatty notebook. It’s filled with Moriarty’s manic scribbling: numbers, tables and symbols - enlivened by doodles of churches and temples; stick figures in religious garb; and grisly drawings depicting torture and death. (Delightful.)

Sherlock has no idea what it means. He rises from his chair and bids Peralta farewell.

“Vaya con Dios,” Peralta says, just as Sherlock reaches the door.

Sherlock turns, confused by the blessing. “I thought Moriarty convinced you Heaven is rotten?”

Peralta smiles. "Heaven is not God, Señor Holmes. God is great. God is good.”

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 27 July 2011_

 

“You got nothing from him?" Mycroft asks. "Nothing at all?" He can't believe it. Peralta had direct contact with Moriarty. There must have been something.

It seems to be a long time before Sherlock replies. "No. But he had some nice paintings. Did you want one?"

"Don't be clever, Sherlock. This isn't good. It’s going to look very bad on your record.”

“On yours, you mean.”

“Yes. Lamentably, on that, too. I was so sure … Oh, well. If you’ve got nothing useful, you’d better get yourself on the next plane to China: Gabriel wants you to go Tibet.”

“Tibet? Why?”

“Because, unlike you, little brother, he has a lead. A gompa in Wangdue. Centuries of unwavering religious devotion, then suddenly the place is awash with alcohol and fornication, not to mention serving as a distribution centre for contraband goods.”

“So? Earth is rife with such places.”

"One of their mules was ... persuaded to talk. So stop questioning me, pack your bags and go.”

“How’s John?”

“John?” Mycroft's first response is to grit his teeth: five weeks have clearly done nothing to dull Sherlock's ardour ... but perhaps that ardour is not a bad thing, if it can been used against him. 

"He's missing you," Mycroft says. "Far more than you’re apparently missing him.”

Sherlock bites instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands, his voice tight.

“Well, for someone who claims to be so eager to come home," Mycroft replies sweetly, "you’re taking a ridiculous amount of time to get the job done."

 

__________

 

_Saturday, 30th July 2011_

 

This is the fourth time this week that John's been to the chip shop, and the warm, fragrant parcel of his haddock supper is a comforting weight, cradled against his chest. Bugger calories. Bugger cholesterol. It’s not like he wants to live forever. It’s not like he even wants to live into next … No. Stop that right now, Watson. You are not going to let the bastards kill you, too.

John straightens his spine, raises his chin and semi-marches the rest of the way home, refusing to flinch under a sudden downpour. He’s still square-shouldered and erect when he opens his front door, despite the rain running down the back of his neck.

In the kitchen, he reaches for a plate from the cupboard, then wonders why. There's no point standing on ceremony, eating on his own. Why generate washing up? He carries his food into the living room, gets comfy in an armchair and turns on the TV.

He’s on his fifth chip when it starts: the unmistakable sound of the couple next door having sex, going at it with gusto beyond the paper-thin wall. Bloody house conversions. Bloody money-grabbing landlords cramming too many people into too small a space. John tries to ignore the squeal of bedsprings, the thuds and the moans, but he can’t, not with his treacherous brain dredging up memories of the times he and Sherlock were like that. 

Appetite gone, he dumps his fish and chips on the floor, and takes down his bottle of whisky from the shelf. One glass, that's all he'll have. One glass of bitter sweet pleasure. Of smoke, and honey, and heat.

 

__________

 

_Monday, 1st August 2011_

 

Mycroft's desk is spread with maps and timetables. According to his calculations, the journey from Chengdu to Wengdue will take Sherlock three weeks. The train will take him as far as Lhasa but after that, he'll have to hike over rough terrain, fighting altitude sickness.

Mycroft smiles. Gabriel cannot object - the Himalayas represent a formidable obstacle - and, as far as Mycroft's concerned, the longer Sherlock's mission takes, the better. Unrequited love has a limited lifespan, and eventually bond between Sherlock and John Watson is bound to break.

 

__________

 

_Sunday, 7th August 2011_

 

The students upstairs are having a party. Another party. And if the others are anything to go by, it won’t end until dawn. John’s whole flat buzzes with the noise of it, and the ceiling shudders under stomping, dancing feet. If John’s to have any hope of sleep, he's going to need a little help. A tumbler of whisky takes the edge off; a second and his eyelids start to droop but he takes a sleeping tablet anyway. Better to be safe than sorry.

 

__________

 

_Saturday, 20th August 2011_

 

After the contrived flare of Chengdu Shangliu International's swoops and curves, the natural beauty of the Himalayas puts Earthian design and ingenuity to shame. Sherlock is surrounded by barren rocks, uncompromising peaks and brilliant snow. This is perfection and he promises himself that one day he’ll bring John here to see for this stark glory for himself. 

Not that the experience is entirely comfortable. Cold, thin air pinches Sherlock cheeks and grates like tiny razors in his throat and lungs as he toils uphill to the monastery. His breath comes in short, laboured gasps and he's aching to sit down.

Wangdue Gompa is a solid building, with tall, blank sides painted red. Only its relative smallness amidst the vast mountain grandeur stops it from standing out like a ugly, sore thumb - too square and regular amongst so many acute angles and diagonals. As soon as Sherlock’s within range of anyone who might be watching from inside, he slips into character: head bent, shuffling gait, face hidden by his dark red robes. He passes under the temple archway and knocks on the heavy door. After a moment, it creaks open. A shaven-headed boy looks at him curiously.

“Tashi delek,” Sherlock murmurs, bowing his head still further.

The boy stands aside to let him in.

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 25th August 2011_

 

Sudden, violent thumps don't make John jump any more. Some of the neighbourhood kids have decided it's hilarious to bang on his door, late at night, then run away. John has a good idea which ones are responsible and, one of these days, he’ll give them a stern talking to but, for now, he’ll just have a whisky and watch telly 'til he falls asleep.

 

__________

 

_Friday, 26th August 2011_

 

Sherlock sneaks down another long, cold temple corridor, only to stop dead when he catches the unmistakable aroma of tobacco mixed with marijuana. (Cigarettes! Someone here has cigarettes!) He inhales greedily and hurries along in pursuit of the source.

His hunt leads him to a cell on the south side of the building, inside which a monk of about thirty-five is idling on a bench, smoking. A half-drunk bottle of vodka stands on the floor. (So much for the Fifth Precept.) Sherlock grins. (This is getting interesting.) He steps inside.

The monk eyes him lazily. (No shame, no embarrassment: this isn’t the first time he’s indulged.)

“Enough for two?” Sherlock asks.

The monk laughs. “Enough for two hundred and twenty-two. If you know the right people.”

“And you do.”

The monk takes a deep drag and closes his eyes. Wreaths of blue smoke curl about him. 

“Yes," he says, "I do.”

 

__________

 

_Sunday, 28th August 2011_

 

Tackling the local yobs about chucking their rubbish into the area outside his bedsit didn’t turn out like John planned. When he was Captain Watson, bawling out badly behaved squaddies had them quaking in their boots. The youngsters here just laugh at him, and make fun of his jumpers. He goes back inside and stares at himself in the mirror. He’s not standing up straight any more, and the air of authority he once had is gone. No-one would ever believe he used to be a soldier, from looking at him. 

The only way they'd believe it would be if he showed them his gun.

 

__________

 

_Saturday, 3rd September 2011_

 

The monk from the south side cell is called Bassui. He tells Sherlock it means ‘high above the average’. Sherlock tells him his name is John and that it means ‘perfect’ (but the joke hurts, damn it). Sherlock visits Bassui in his cell every day for a week. Bassui gets intoxicated; Sherlock does not. Bassui talks and Sherlock listens. A lot of it’s moaning about temple life and how stupid everyone is. How the abbot and his underlings are too convinced of Buddhism's spiritually improving powers to notice the drinking and drug-taking going on right under their noses.

“What happens when they do?” Sherlock asks, inhaling smoke from his tobacco-only cigarette.

Bassui shrugs. “Probably chase us all out with sticks and swords.”

“You don’t seem concerned.”

“I can handle a stick. And a sword. If they want to get nasty, I’ll get nasty back.”

“And what about your immortal soul? Aren’t you worried about that?”

Bassui snorts. “Lies. All lies. There are no immortal souls. Ensho is right. I’m glad she came here. She’s shown us the light.”

“Ensho,” Sherlock murmurs. (At last. A name.) (And Moriarty's agent is a she.)

 

__________

 

_Wednesday, 7th September 2011_

 

Navigating the benefits system has been a nightmare. Another dismal interview room, another cold, suspicious face. At first, John answered the assessment officers' questions politely, but they kept asking him the same thing twice, rephrased, as if he wouldn’t notice, as if they thought he was lying. Today it was more than he could bear and he stormed out, so furiously, it sent his plastic chair crashing to the floor.

At the time, he told himself he himself that his army pension would be enough, if he was careful; he'd manage. Now he's had time to calm down, he knows that he can't. There was a reason he moved in with Sherlock, after all - a practical one, in addition to his romantic hopes. His new flat may be cheaper than 221B was, but it still costs more than he can afford, and he kicks a kitchen cupboard door, hard, in frustration. He’s a war veteran, injured in the line of duty, and yet he’s scarcely got enough money to keep body and soul together. That’s where he’s going wrong. He should just stop. No-one would miss him, and he’s so damn weary of the fight.

He runs a hand through his hair, and swallows hard against the knot of self-pity rising in his throat. He’s not going to cry. Never for himself. The thought proves a tipping point, and his mind flashes back to the pavement outside of Bart’s. Sherlock’s beautiful, broken body. The blood on his face; in his hair. 

It’s all still so vivid, so terrible and so real that suddenly John can't breathe. His heart feels like it's smashing itself into his ribs, and the pulse in this throat is thudding. He grips the back of a chair. Digs his fingers in. Steady, soldier - steady. He said those words so many times in Afghanistan, to young men thrashing in pain on stretchers, or sprawled injured on the ground. They worked back then and, somehow, they work for John now. He draws in a shaky breath and wipes his eyes, the crisis past.

And then someone bangs on his door.

He throws it open to confront them, there’s no-one there - not in clear sight, anyway - but he’s sure he can hear them laughing, the cock-sure little bastards, the work-shy arrogant boys, and his John reason snaps. He darts back into the house, to his bedroom and his bedside drawer. His pistol’s in his hand before he knows it, and he’s flying out of the front door.

“Come here and say that,” he snarls into the darkness.

No-one answers but something rustles. There. Amongst the leaves of that overgrown shrub. Something. Danger. Take aim. Fire. Fire again.

Screaming brings John back to reality, to his senses, and he sinks, numbly to the ground.

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 8th September 2011 - 6 am_

 

The landline phones rings just as Mycroft switches off the shower and he drips water all the way from the bathroom to his bedroom as he rushes to answer it. Phone reception in Wangdu is erratic and he daren't let the call ring out, even it is does somewhat undignified to talk to Sherlock without a stitch on.

"I take it you have information?" Mycroft asks, pushing sodden hair back from his forehead. 

"A name and a gender," Sherlock says, sounding disgustingly pleased with himself, even from four and half thousand miles away. "Moriarty's agent is a woman."

"That should make your task simple. In fact, why haven't you apprehended her already?"

"Which century d'you think we're in? Women become Buddhist monks these days, too."

"Yes, well ... just get on with it!" Mycroft is getting cold, his skin goose pimpling, and the lingering damp - particularly at his armpits and groin - is a most unpleasant sensation.

"Before you go-"

"What? There are things I have to do, Sherlock. Places I need to be!" Specifically: the bathroom, towelling off. With one of those enormous white bath sheets from Harrods. Mycroft can almost feel its soft absorbency against his skin-

"When do you suppose Gabriel and Moriarty fell out? I mean, Moriarty was a Dominion. Higher ranking than you or I. At one time, he must have enjoyed Heaven's favour. What happened?"

"He went rogue. Started killing." Mycroft wishes he hadn't conjured the prospect of a towel in quite so much detail. 

"No. He was sent here to kill. To kill Nephilim. And he was very good at that. So what happened?"

Suddenly, being dry loses its importance. Sherlock is moving into dangerous waters. "This is not your business. Nor mine. Just do your job."

"I will. But you have to admit it's interesting."

He's right: it is. But Mycroft's going to admit nothing of the kind.

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 8th September 2011 - 8am_

 

Section 136. The section used by the police to remove a person from a public place to a place of safety. 

John remembers learning that at med school and his skin crawls to see it in black and white on the paperwork the arresting officer is handing it over to the duty sergeant. He supposes he’s lucky not to have been charged with a criminal offence. He's not mad or dangerous, but he's too ashamed to argue or to demand access to a lawyer, and allows himself to be taken down to the cells without protest.

 

__________

 

_Saturday, 17 September 2011_

 

Outwardly, life at the gompa remains unchanged. The monks train and meditate; the rituals go on. Today will see one of the monastery’s most important - the celebration of its quincentenary - and even now, the monks are gathering in the great hall. Sherlock watches them as they file in and kneel in silent, humble rows. (The whole monastery is here. Ensho is here - but where?) (What idiot decided to let women become monks?)

A figure appears at Sherlock's side: the abbot.

“I sense impatience in you,” he says. “Suffering.”

Sherlock grunts in reply. He’s trying to concentrate but the abbot wants to chat.

“Suffering is the result of craving and attachment,” he says.

“Nothing to do with the lack of central heating, then? Or the terrible catering?”

The abbot chuckles. “Those, too. But they are not the source of your pain.”

“I’m fine. What do you want?"

The abbot smiles, a kind smile that creases the skin around his eyes into deep folds. “I would ask one thing of you, my son.”

(Here it comes. Unwanted advice. This is so like Mycroft-)

“We have a tradition at our most important ceremonies. We ask our newest member to bless his brothers and sisters. We would be honoured if you would accept this task.”

Sherlock’s first thought is that he knows only the most basic of blessings; his second that performing this role will bring him the closest he’s likely to get to Ensho.

“I would also be honoured,” he says and, at the abbot's signal, steps forward and begins moving down the first row of monks, murmuring ‘Tashi delek’ over each bent head. He has to be careful. Unmasking the wrong woman would not just put ‘Ensho’ on her guard; it would also destroy his credibility. (And God knows where that would lead. The abbot is a kind man but deadly with a staff.) (Should have brought a gun.) (Should have brought John …) Sherlock gives himself a mental shake and gathers his concentration. 

The monks all look the same in their red robes. Some are obviously taller or broader than others, but none conclusively female. (Think! Concentrate! There must be something ...) Sherlock takes a breath to help his focus - and freezes. (Scent! Perfume of a decidedly un-temple-like boldness.) (Something western, something British ...) He searches his mental files. (Yes! Hudson wears it. Kasbah Nights!) Instantly, his pulse quickens: victory is within his grasp. He moves purposefully now, swift with intent, and with each step the scent grows stronger until, at last, Sherlock finds her. (Ensho: drug-smuggler, apostate and Moriarty’s agent.)

He extends his hand as if in blessing - then, at the last moment, flips her hood back from her head. A furious, pretty blonde glares up at him.

“You bastard!” she spits.

All around them people gasp. Sherlock turns to the abbot.

"This woman," he says, "is an imposter. She has infiltrated your temple in order to bring it down from the inside with drink and drugs. Search her cell, if you don't believe it."

But the abbot's expression is not one of shock. He's clearly been aware of Ensho's activities for some time and he signals to some of the more senior monks to seize her.

“You may have caught me,” ‘Ensho’ cries, struggling, as they frogmarch her away, “but there’s hundreds of us. The truth cannot be silenced. Heaven’s days are numbered!”

Harsh sunlight cuts through the darkness of the room as she’s pushed out of it, but the doors soon swing closed again and, once again, the only light is the soft glow from flickering torches and candles. The abbot is already at Sherlock’s side, gushing gratitude and benediction, but Sherlock scarcely hears. There’s none of the triumph he expected to feel, just a vague sensation of disquiet. Ensho - or whatever her real name is - sounded like someone motivated by not greed but conviction. Someone very like Mateo Peralta.

 

__________

 

_Saturday, 17th September 2011_

 

Section 2. The section they use if they want to detain you after Section136’s seventy-two hour limit expires. It's valid for twenty-eight days and it looks like they're going to keep John in the Hawsley for every one of them.

After the noise and discomfort of Wandsworth police station, the hospital is a haven of peace and calm. He’s treated well, spoken to kindly, and has a bed in a surprisingly small ward where everything is clean and bright and comfortable.

“If I’d realised pulling a gun would get me somewhere like this, I’d have done it months ago,” he'd joked, when he first came here, but no-one laughed.

 

__________

 

_Friday, 23rd September 2011_

 

“We've been making good progress,” John’s therapist says, as he winds up their sixth session.

John blinks. There’s are four framed certificates on the wall, complete with crests and signatures, and this idiot thinks they've made progress? Sherlock’s gone, and John will never see him again. Where's the progress in that? Where's the point?

But saying that will sound angry, impatient and uncooperative, so John says nothing and just nods. The therapist smiles and tells him he can go.

For having said so little, and done even less, John’s ridiculously tired. He wonders if he'll be allowed a nap but, on his way back to the ward, a nurse stops him, saying he has a visitor in the day room. John hates the day room. Hates the false cheeriness of the décor; the awkward camaraderie from other patients. But then again, what does it matter? What does any of it matter? He takes a right turn instead of a left. Neither one of them can take him where he wants to go.

The day room is empty except for John’s visitor, who turns out to be Greg Lestrade and, despite the soft buffer of his antidepressants, John bristles. He’s on the point of turning back the way he came when Greg spots him and strides over, to envelope him in a hug. His coat smells of cigarettes, not Sherlock's brand but the smell unleashes a landslide of feeling anyway - sadness, want,despair - and for a moment, John just lets Greg hold him, imagining the strong arms around him belong to someone else.

But his weakness is embarrassing and when they break apart, they’re both uncomfortable and have no idea what to say. Greg recovers quickest. He starts talking about the room, the hospital, work and the world. John only half-listens, he knows he won’t retain it. He’s not interested. He doesn’t care. None of it matters. Not any more. At some point he starts shaking and breaks out in a sweat. Greg tries to calm him but John pushes him away, some distant part of his brain watching as Greg loses his balance, knocking a table over as he tries not to fall. A fruit bowl goes flying, and three green apples roll off across the carpeted floor.

Then there are nurses, running in from all directions. One of them tries to soothe him, but John lashes out with his foot. Kicks a chair. Someone grabs him. He struggles, twists, fights. Someone seizes his arm, and then they're holding him so tightly he can't move. A needle goes into his arm. A tranquilizer. For his own good, they say but John hardly needs it. He's too wrung out to try any more.

 

__________

 

Monday, 26th September, 2011

 

After the logistically taxing fluff of the Royal Wedding and the distressing necessity of standing by, silent, whilst Sherlock’s name is dragged through the mud, the Telegraph's headline - World’s first artificial organ transplant - holds out the promise of an uplifting, post-lunch read, but no sooner has Mycroft taken possession of a miraculously unoccupied bench under one of Regent Park’s finest willows to take advantage of the July sunshine than he spots the unmistakable, square-shouldered figure of Gregory Lestrade advancing upon him with determination. Mycroft's intractable heart cartwheels with joy, but he ignores it; holds his newspaper higher and pretends not to have seen.

His ostrich act fails. He knew it had no chance of success, even as he deployed it, so when Greg’s policeman’s boots stop in front of his own highly polished Loakes, he pastes on the sourest of importuned frowns.

"Hello," Greg says, with a small, hopeful smile.

Mycroft allows his nostrils to flare and one corner of his top lip to lift in distaste.

“What do you want? I presume your happening upon me is not merely an unfortunate coincidence.”

Hurt flashes in the Fallen’s eyes and his smile fades.

“Your secretary told me I’d probably find you here.”

“Did she, indeed?” Mycroft snaps his newspaper shut and folds it, rattling the crisp paper to underline his irritation. “I may have to dispense with her services.”

Greg raises a hand. “Hear me out. I’m not here about … us. I’m here about John Watson.”

“John Watson is not my concern.”

“Well, he should be. He’s in the Hawsley. Had a total breakdown and ended up firing an illegal weapon. They’ve sectioned him.”

Despite himself, Mycroft feels a knot of unease, deep in his stomach, as if he were having trouble digesting his lunch. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks stiffly. “As I said: John Watson is not my concern.”

From the resolute expression on Gregory’s face, it’s clear there’s only one way to be done with this: Mycroft will have to leave. He gets to his feet to walk away but Greg blocks him.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft. John’s grief-stricken - grief-stricken over your brother - and he needs help.” He runs a hand through his hair, and Mycroft can’t help mentally reliving the surprising softness of it. “Sherlock could be an unfeeling bastard, God knows, but he would have wanted you to do what you can for John.”

Mycroft knows Greg's right, and it doesn't help.

“Don’t presume to tell me what my brother would or would not have wanted,” he says.

“I’m not asking for me,” Greg says quietly. “I’m asking for Sherlock. For John.”

Mycroft sighs. He thinks he would have preferred a fight. He’s an Angel and Greg’s a Fallen; there’s no way he would have lost to him in a punch-up. As it is, in the face of Greg’s heart-felt plea, all the wind goes out of his sails.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says and walks away.

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 27th September 2011_

 

From the outside, the Hawsley is a respectable edifice of red brick and Portland stone - although architecturally too busy to be considered truly elegant. Inside, it’s bright but dreary thanks to too many fluorescent lights and wipe-clean surfaces. Worse still, it smells. Of air fresheners, Earthian bodies and disinfectant. Mycroft covers his mouth and nose with his handkerchief and follows the rather square-rumped female assigned to lead him to Watson’s ward.

He wasn't expecting to be shocked by the sight of the Nephilim, but he is. Watson’s sitting soldier-backed in a plastic armchair, staring blankly out of the window. There’s a cup of something sitting, untouched, on the table beside him; an unopened book on his lap. Mycroft shudders, unaccountably cold in the overheated room.

“Someone to see you, John,” the nurse says, leaning in to lay a gentle hand on John’s forearm.

Mycroft sees John’s gaze move slowly from the window, to the hand, then up to the nurse’s face.

“Over there,” she says, tilting her head in Mycroft’s direction.

John turns to look and, in the silent, hollow moments that follow, Mycroft realizes he was expecting to be met with contempt and rage, not this half-dead, empty-eyed stare. John Watson’s trademark insolence has gone; the light in him utterly snuffed out. It may be a price Mycroft still believes worth paying, but that doesn’t stop it being unpleasant to witness in person. 

“It’s the medication,” the nurse says. “If you come closer, and talk to him, he’ll perk up.”

Mycroft recoils. “No, no. I don’t want to … distress him. I’ll come back. When he’s more … Soon.”

The nurse sighs. She’s clearly used to vistors losing their nerve and running away, but before she can say anything to try to prevent him, Mycroft turns smartly on his heel and does just that.

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 29th September 2011_

 

Thanks to Anthea’s consummate professionalism, Mycroft’s daily To Do list is close to completion, and it’s still only half-past four. He may well take a stroll along the river before going home; make the most of the crisp autumn weather. 

He turns to the last item on his agenda, gold fountain pen at the ready. “And finally: John Watson.”

“He went on a visit to the Priory yesterday morning, sir,” she says. “They can take him from the seventh of next month. The nurses found him very charming, by all accounts.”

Smiling happily, Mycroft strikes Watson’s name from his list and decides to allow himself a cone of hot candied chesnuts from the vendors on Millbank: the Nephilim is reverting nicely to type.

 

__________

 

_Friday, 11th November 2011_

 

When the Polish staff nurse who puts John in mind of Molly Hooper, interrupts his attempt on the Guardian cryptic crossword to tell him he’s got a visitor, his first thought is: Sherlock. His second: I really must be mad. But he keeps both to himself as follows Nurse Woźniak to the day room, silently praying that he’ll find neither Harry or Mrs Hudson waiting there. He’s supposed to be Harry’s rock, the solid older brother who picks her up when she falls off the wagon. As for Mrs Hudson … well, she’s already been through too much.

To his astonishment, however, his visitor is James - Major Sholto. He’s standing at the far end of the room, watching the last leaves falling from the trees in the hospital garden. A wave of forgotten feeling wells up in John and he comes smartly to attention, even though neither of them is in uniform.

“They tell me you’re doing better,” James says, at the sound of John’s heels coming together.

“I am,” John replies. “At least, they tell me I am. And you?”

James turns to face him, and it’s all John can do not to gasp. The right side of James' face is as boyishly handsome as ever, but the left … The left is a patchwork of scars and contractures. John glances down at James' left hand and sees it hanging loose and unmoving. James’ burns must have been extensive. 

Watching his reaction, James pastes on a smile and says, “Also doing better."

John wrinkles his nose in apology. “Can I ask what happened?”

James looks down at his shoes. They’re as polished as if he were on parade and he has a poppy pinned to his lapel.

“I got off lightly,” he murmurs. “Six men - new recruits - died and I got the D.S.O.”

“You always were a good commanding officer, sir. The best.”

“Not what the families think. Or the press.”

“The press are a bunch of bastards, sir.”

James presses his lips together and nods. “They’ve certainly been hard on your friend.”

John doesn't know what to say to that and a minute passes by in awkward silence.

“This place suiting you, then?" James asks eventually. "They’re treating you well?”

“Very.”

“That’s good.” James smiles, a quick on-off upturn of his lips, but the warmth in his eyes remains. “Men like you, John - they deserve the best.”

Such words don’t trip lightly from the lips of men like James and they both know it. John is lost for words again and, again, James looks down at the ground. Then Nurse Woźniak clatters in with a trolley laden with tea and cakes. John and James consume them talking rugby, politics and the weather. Anything to avoid mention of the gaping holes in their lives.

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 20th December 2011_

 

On his doctor's advice, John has taken up swimming every day. He needs the exercise but it's also good therapy for his mind. The simplicity of slicing through the water calms him. He's just drying off after forty lengths when Nurse Ibekwe tells him there's an Inspector Lestrade to see him. John's surprised. He really wasn't expecting to see Greg again after last time - even if his memory of what happened still isn’t completely clear.

Greg's smile as John enters the visitor's room is wary but hopeful. John nods. It’s as far as he’s prepared to go. There are some things he definitely hasn’t forgotten.

Lestrade holds out a cardboard box. "Merry Christmas."

The label says Amazon, but it’s already been opened, so John’s not expecting to find books inside. Instead, there are biscuits, cake, sweets, a puzzle book, grapes.

“I’m crap at this,” Lestrade says.

“Yeah,” John agrees.

They eye each other for a moment, then Lestrade takes a long deep breath and huffs it out.

“I miss him too, you know.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Not like you, obviously, but … God, I miss him. If only I’d been able to … I’m sorry.”

John wants to hate him. Wants to want to punch him. But it’s the first time anyone who knew Sherlock has talked about him; the first time anyone else has expressed a fraction of the loss he feels.

“I should never have listened to them,” Lestrade mutters, not even looking at John.

“No.”

“I thought he was invincible, though, you know? Never expected gossip to get to him.” He shakes his head. “He always came across as so tough. So bloody arrogant. Never gave a toss about anything anyone else said. How come I didn’t see that that was a front? That, underneath it all, he was vulnerable?”

John’s stomach twists. He never realized either. 

“He hid it well,” he says.

Lestrade raises his head. His eyes are pleading.

“I think something happened,” John says. “On Dartmoor. When we got back, he wasn’t the same. He kept saying weird things …”

“Yeah?”

John shakes his head, remembering. “At first I thought he’d gone all romantic. Sherlock!” He barks out a laugh. "I should have known better."

Lestrade looks like he wants to say something - something kind and earnest that will probably result in John breaking down again for the first time in weeks, so John presses on.

“He said he was an angel. And he meant it. Seriously. He’d even done DNA profiles to try to convince me.”

Lestrade’s jaw drops. 

“But we’re not- ," he starts, then shakes his head. "I mean, he said that? Seriously?”

John squeezes his eyes shut. “I know. He was delusional. Fragile. I should have done something …”

Lestrade’s hand lands on his shoulder. A warm weight. Human touch. John jerks away.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Greg says. “If he was saying stuff like that, I doubt anyone could have saved him.”

 

__________

 

_Sunday, 25th December 2011_

 

It takes an age before Mycroft deigns to answer his phone (probably had to prise himself away from a five-course Christmas lunch) (smoked salmon, roast turkey, cheese and biscuits, plum pudding, coffee and liqueurs) and Sherlock's seething with resentment by the time he finally does.

"Season's greetings," he snaps.

"And to you," Mycroft returns sweetly. "What news?"

"Moriarty's Norwegian agents are all in custody."

"Excellent.."

"Found most of them stirring up trouble at Oslo Cathedral and a couple at St Ovlav's. Are you seeing a pattern here, Mycroft?"

"No. And nor are you, whatever you may think. Just concentrate on getting this over with."

As ever, the prospect of an end to this mission stirs feelings it's impossible to ignore. "How's John?" Sherlock asks. It's playing into Mycroft's hands, he knows, but he can't not.

"Very well," Mycroft says and ends the call.

It was the answer Sherlock hoped for - he wants John to be well - but hearing he actually is leaves him feeling strangely flat.

 

__________

 

_Sunday, 1st January 2012_

 

The New Year arrives on an icy blast from Siberia, but the weather's positively tropical compared with the chill emanating from Gabriel. He plants his hands on Mycroft’s desk and leans in.

“Thirty-two thousand pounds. Thirty-two thousand pounds spent on an Earthian. What, in the name of God, were you thinking?”

Sweat breaks out on the back of Mycroft’s neck. He knows booking John Watson into such an expensive facility was overstepping his bounds but, with so much more important things on Gabriel's mind, he’d hoped it would go unnoticed. He latches onto the first explanation that comes to mind.

“He was in pain,” he says, “and since taking care of those less fortunate than ourselves is surely a tenet-” 

Gabriel raises his hands and slams them down on the desk again so hard that it makes the desk lamp jump.

“Get him out of there,” he says, through a snarl. “We are not made of money and, at this juncture, the well-being of one Earthian is neither here nor there. We're dealing with a rebellion, treason, remember?”

Mycroft assures him he does, and quickly turns the conversation to Sherlock’s recent success in Norway. It’s a relief to have something concrete to report and it seems to distract Gabriel from his ire about John Watson.

However, as he’s leaving, he makes it clear he hasn’t forgotten. 

“Move him,” he says. “Do it today.”

 

__________

 

_Monday, 9th January 2012_

 

Harry’s been writing emails ever since Christmas, saying she’d visit but John has taken her promises with the usual pinch of salt - Harry’s Harry; she’s never been reliable - so he’s stunned when she actually turns up, swanning into the Priory’s day room like she owns the place. She looks good, too. Her skin’s plumper and less parched than he remembers; her eyes are clear.

Whereas everyone else has been treating John with kid-gloved care, his sister marches up to him, shoulder-barges him and punches his upper arm. 

“Oi!” He makes a show of rubbing the spot she bashed, but he can’t help smiling. It’s like old times. The time after Dad, and before she discovered alcohol.

“So. How ya doing, bro?”

“Yeah, not bad. You’re looking … good.”

Harry grins and flings herself into one of the comfy chairs. “Well, we’re a good-looking family, aren’t we? Mr Three Continents.”

It’s great to see her in such good spirits, and John chuckles. “That was a long time ago.”

“Hey!” she says, pointing a finger. “None of that. We’re still bloody gorgeous.”

“You’re impossible,” he laughs, and goes to pour them both a cup of coffee from the machine.

Harry accepts hers with a nod, and takes a careful, thoughtful sip.

“So - they’re moving you on. When did they decide that?”

John’s heart lurches. “End of last week. They say I’m ready.”

“So what happens next? Who makes sure you don’t go all psycho again?” Harry takes another sip from her cup. “No offence.”

“None taken: I was shooting at people who weren’t there. Standard practice is, they’ll give me a community psychiatric nurse.” It’s all he’s sure of; he doesn’t want to think about the rest. He's been okay here, away from the world.

“Where are you going to live?”

“Christ, what is this? Twenty questions?”

“You’re not going back to that dump in Wandsworth, are you?”

“No.”

“Baker Street?”

“Christ, no!”

“Why not? You were happier there than you’ve ever been.”

“Well, apart from the obvious, I can’t afford it. Especially when I’m not working.”

Harry drains her cup.

“You could afford it if someone helped you. His brother, for instance. You’d think he’d want to. After all … I mean, if you were his widow-”

“Well, I’m not,” John snaps. “And I don’t want his help. I don’t want anyone’s help.”

Harry sighs. “ ’course you don’t. But they’re gonna move you on to a hostel, if you haven’t got anywhere else. That’s what happens. Been there, done that.”

“A hostel will be fine.”

“Sharing with a bunch of strangers with mental health issues?” Harry says. “You reckon you can handle that?”

“I was in the army,” John says, and fakes a grin.

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 12th April 2012_

 

All in all, John reckons life in the hostel has been much better than he expected. The other residents are okay: two women in their twenties - Janey and Tash, a bloke in his late thirties who likes to go by the name of Dog, and an elderly man who insists on ‘Mr Hutchinson’ when addressed by anyone under the age of sixty. John’s CPN is called Leroy, and John likes him: his kind smile comes with a gallows sense of humour that makes him easy to talk to. And John can tell him things - things like Tash’s fussing over him getting on his nerves - without ever being afraid he’ll take it as sign of a relapse and have him dragged straight back to hospital.

By April, John’s being to think of him as a friend, and when he turns up unexpectedly one day, John’s really pleased to see him.

Leroy looks pretty pleased, too.

“Got something for you, man,” he says, handing over a glossy brochure. Its cover is a kaleidoscope of smiling faces framed by the words Rosewell Community College.

John looks at it blankly for a moment. Leroy gives him a form.

“Fill this in. It’s for a place on a course to get you back to work. Can’t let those mad skills of yours go unused much longer, can we, Doctor Watson?”

John stares at him. “Who’d want me as their GP now?”

“We’re not talking about now. We’re talking about getting you ready.”

 

__________

 

_Friday, 18th May 2012_

 

It's been a busy fortnight in Teheran. An election, an execution plus the usual international bickering that passes for diplomacy amongst Earthians. Sherlock's glad he's had other things to think about but now the plot to blow up a minor mosque has been exposed and Moriarty's agent already in jail, his thoughts turn to John again. He's been away for almost a year and he misses him horribly.

__________

 

_Monday, 15th October 2012_

 

Mycroft's diary informs him that the Prime Minister is away from London today; in Edinburgh, signing a referendum agreement with the Scottish First Minister. It's an absurd idea, of course. Britain is a tiny entity in the grand scheme of things; breaking it into even smaller pieces will inevitably reduce its global - it's cosmic - significance. Not that you can tell the Nationalists that. They think making their own laws more important than serving the whole. But then, they're Earthians, thus deficient in reason, and completely lacking in deference to the institutions designed to ensure their comfort and security.

Mycroft sniffs. This is why Gabriel's right; why the Rebellion on Heaven has to be crushed. Even Angels need to toe the line.

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 25 December 2012_

 

John's course goes well. Summer comes and goes, and a mild wet autumn has turned into mild, wet winter. John finds the continuity soothing. If it snowed, he'd have to acknowledge it’s nearly Christmas - with all that that entails. Endless grey will allow the holiday to slip by without him really noticing.

But it doesn’t. On Christmas Day, he wakes up to frantic pounding on his bedroom door. He’s out of bed and half-way across the room, looking for his med kit, before he remembers that he’s not in the Army any more, and that this is not Afghanistan.

But the pounding goes on, to the accompaniment of Janey and Tash screaming his name. John puts on his dressing gown and opens the door.

He barely gets out a “What-?” before Janey has grabbed his hand and is dragging him down the hall. Tash follows on behind, sobbing.

At the end of the corridor, Dog’s door stands open. Dog himself is lying on the floor. He’s thrown up, and shat himself, and his skin’s deathly pale. John drops to his knees beside him.

“Call an ambulance!” he yells, checking that Dog’s airway is clear. “Now!”

“But he’s had crack,” Tash wails. “They’ll tell the police and he’ll get put inside again.”

John finds Dog’s carotid pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there. “Call. An. Ambulance,” he shouts again. “NOW!”

Tash yelps in shock, but she takes out her phone and stabs at the buttons with her red and gold Christmas fingernails.

It takes the ambulance twenty minutes to arrive. The paramedics put an oxygen mask on Dog and stretcher him away. Tash and Janey are allowed to go with him, leaving John to clear up the stinking mess he's left behind.

“Knew this Christmas would be shit,” he mutters, as he goes in search of a bucket and some disinfectant, and somewhere in his head, he hears Sherlock laugh at his joke.

Once Dog’s room is smelling less like an open sewer, John decides to go out for a walk. It’s not like he’s got a turkey roasting in the oven, after all, but when he opens the front down, he finds Harry on the doorstep, one finger reaching for the buzzer. She's got a parcel under one arm and a set of fuzzy antlers on her head. Instantly John's mind flashes back to Christmas at Baker Street - to Mrs H trying to wheedle Sherlock into a similar pair - and tears sting at his eyes yet again.

Harry misunderstands. “Oh, you daft, sod,” she says, hugging him tight. “Of course I was gonna visit my brother on Christmas Day. So - you gonna invite me in, or what?”

John glances back over his shoulder. “What,” he says firmly. “Too much drama in there. Christmas lunch in a pub?”

Harry pulls a regretful face. “Better make that McDonalds,” she says. “Christmas is a danger day.”

The local McD’s is shut so they take the Tube up to Marble Arch and order Winter Warmer Burgers and chips. John opens his present. It’s a jumper he’ll actually wear, and Harry beams at him when he tells her how much he likes it.

“Well, that was okay,” Harry says, finishing her last chip. “But you’d think they’d do brussel sprouts. You can cook for us New Year, at yours.”

John grimaces. 

Harry frowns. “What? What’s wrong?”

So John tells her, alternately heartened, then uncomfortable, at how outraged she is that social services have ‘dumped’ him in ‘a place like that’. She’s still fuming about it when they say good-bye. He tells her to forget it, and that they'll do New Year at KFC.

 

__________

 

_Wednesday, 26th December 2012_

 

A short woman with dirty blond hair and a death glare comes stomping up to Mycroft as he makes his way from office to car. He recognizes her from her file immediately, but when he looks around for Security, there’s not a single burly man in uniform to be seen. Such are the perils of Boxing Day working, he supposes; he’ll have to fend for himself.

“Ms Watson,” he says, and is delighted to see her frown in confusion at his use of her name.

“You know who I am?”

He deploys his most cold-eyed smile. “Oh, I know great many things, Ms Watson.”

She looks startled at that and he almost manages to convince himself she’ll just scuttle away, but no: she’s her brother’s sister. She squares her shoulders and steps in closer.

“Well, know this,” she says, jabbing a forefinger towards his face, “if you don’t get John out of that dump and into somewhere nice by New Year, I’m going to tell the papers such filthy stories about your brother, it’ll make your toes curl and your dick drop off. And don’t tell me they won’t print it because we both know they will.”

Mycroft does a swift mental calculation. There’s no way he'll persuade Gabriel will pay for John Watson’s accommodation, but he could divert some of his own funds and some of Sherlock’s; and it’s not as if someone with Watson’s skills will remain unemployed forever. The alternative is to allow the Sun, the Mirror et al to publish more lies about Sherlock.

Mycroft raises his chin. “I do not respond to blackmail, Ms Watson. So when John receives an invitation to take up residency in an apartment in Dalston, be assured the offer has nothing to do with your grubby threat. It has, in fact, been in preparation for weeks.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. But my grubby threat still stands.”

Mycroft smiles coldly. She isn’t to know that his toes curl with embarrassment on a regular basis these days, nor that, with Gregory no longer around, the last thing he has any use for is his dick.

“It’s been lovely to … chat,” he says, “but I really must be on my way.”

 

__________

 

_Monday, 31st December 2012_

Sherlock looks down from his tenth floor hotel room onto the midnight revellers on the street below and sighs. There's something profoundly depressing about New Year's Eve. All those stupid little Earthians running about, consuming too much alcohol and indulging in desperate sex to distract themselves from the onward march of Time. In the Vieux Port, he can see fireworks exploding over the water. Once upon a time those expansive bursts were exciting; tonight they just make his heart feel small and tight.

It's been five hundred and fifty-six days since he last saw John.

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 3rd January 2013_

 

“Well, here we are,” Leroy says, bringing his rusty old wreck of a Fiat to a halt beside the kerb. “Ready?”

John realizes he’s been sitting, slumped, in the passenger seat the entire way here. He straightens up and opens his door. He’s lived on his own before; he can do again.

It’s cold out on the pavement; not freezing, but close. John stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and looks up at this place he’s supposed to call home. In reality, it’s better than it looked in Leroy’s paperwork - a whitewashed mid-block Victorian terraced, three floors and a basement, with steps leading up to a grey-green front door. Something scarily like hope stirs in John’s chest.

“Go on, then,” Leroy says, coming round to join on him on the pavement. “Get the keys out. It’s brass monkey’s out here.”

With a twinge of embarrassment, John remembers he’s the one with the keys, and he fumbles through their unfamiliar shapes as he mounts the steps. He turns the right one in the lock, pushes the door open and catches his breath. The hallway is bright and newly decorated; he can still smell the sharp. exciting smell of fresh paint. He fumbles the keys again and finds the one for his flat.

It takes him a good few seconds to make sense of the room he’s looking into. Gone is the tatty old woodchip paper and magnolia paintwork from the photo Leroy showed him. Instead, the living room - his living room - is as white as the hallway. White walls, white ceiling, white woodwork; the whole lot pristine. A clean start. He does a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn. One of the wall sports tasteful cream and burgundy paper, an accent picked up by the wine-coloured curtains. There’s a table, a chair, a settee … Built-in cupboards, new light switches, and a thick, thick carpet underfoot.

“Surprise,” Leroy says, deadpan. “So, what d’you think? I was told they can change it, if the colour scheme doesn’t suit.”

“No. No, it’s fine.” John swallows, his mouth dry. “It’s just … how do I afford this?”

Leroy takes a seat on the settee and gives its springs an exploratory bounce. “Lucky for you,” he says, “you don’t have to. Well, not for a few months yet. I was approached by an old friend.” He taps the side of his nose. “Apparently, they’ve this got fund … to help you get back on your feet.”

John doesn’t hear the rest of it. The money must be from the Fifth Northumberlands. This is James’ doing. Tears of gratitude prick at his eyes.

“Christ, look at you.” Leroy chuckles, a deep warm rumble. “Talk about shock. Not sure I ought to tell you the rest.”

“The rest?” John echoes, knocking his incipient tears away with a knuckle.

“You start work again two weeks next Monday.”

John sinks into a chair. “What?”

“Well, you’ll be on three months probation, obviously, and you won’t have direct patient contact to start with but-”

“You got me a job as a G.P.?”

“I’ve got you a job in a health centre,” Leroy says. “You’ll be working behind the scenes to start with. Filing, answering the phones, keeping the routine screenings schedule up to date. They want to see how you do. If you’re coping - and I’m sure you will - and if they like you - which, again, I’m sure they will … well, one of the doctors will be off on maternity leave in a few months. It’s only a temporary placement, but it’s a start.”

John opens his mouth to say something but the words won’t come. He can’t even seem to get his thoughts in order.

“It’s just down the road. Busy, but well-run, and the head of the practice loved your CV. You’ll like her. She’s the no-nonsense type. You probably had a sergeant major just like her.”

“Right.” John thought he’d found his voice but the word comes out ragged and when he swallows, his mouth’s gone dry again. Something’s not right. This is all moving too fast.

“I don’t get it. When I was invalided home, I got none of this. I couldn’t afford a place in London on my own, and even then, I struggled to pay my bills. What’s different this time? Why am I getting all this now?”

Leroy gives a shrug, but it’s a theatrical one, and suddenly John knows. 

“Mycroft,” he says through gritted teeth. “Mycroft bloody Holmes. This is all him, isn’t it? The flat, the job …”

“I couldn’t possibly say,” Leroy says, aiming for jokey, but his smile is self-conscious, not real. “And I didn’t. If he asks. Right?”

“Right,” John agrees, taking careful breaths - in through the nose, out through the mouth, just like they taught him in Anger Management. His beef’s not with Leroy. He looks around again. It’s a nice flat. Far better than he could have hoped. Accepting it doesn’t mean he’s forgiven Mycroft. Because he hasn’t. Not by a long chalk.

 

__________

 

Monday, 7th January 2013

 

Mycroft’s patience is wearing very thin. It’s nearly eleven o’clock already and there’s still no sign of the treadmill delivery that was supposed to have happened a week ago. He yawns, still bleary from too little sleep. Sherlock has either failed to grasp the concept of international time zone differences, or he just doesn’t care. Mycroft suspects the latter, which makes having been torn away from a particularly delicious dream about Gregory to be grilled about John Watson’s well-being at five o'clock in the morning all the more galling. Mycroft doesn’t see why Sherlock should still have hopes of a sex life when he himself does not.

The clock in the hall strikes the hour and Mycroft decides he really can’t wait much longer: his afternoon schedule is full. He crosses to the living room window and peers impatiently out into the street.

And instantly wishes he hadn’t. Gabriel is crossing the road, but looking straight at him. There’s no point in pretending to be out. Mycroft groans.

There’s no greeting when he opens the door: Gabriel stalks straight past him, practically barging him aside. Mycroft closes the door and follows him into the living room.

Gabriel is angry - not simply disappointed, or critical, but furious. And he appears not to have shaved.

“Did I at any point tell you to get that Earthian a flat?” he demands.

“No, but-”

“Are you an idiot? Or a rebel? Because you’d have to be one or other not to have understood what I said about money!”

“The flat costs considerably less than you might imagine. And I'm paying for it out of my own-”

"Your own funds? You don't have any. Any money you have is Heaven's. Are you trying to ruin us?”

“Absolutely not,” Mycroft says. “I am, as ever, Heaven’s loyal servant.”

Gabriel studies his face and slowly his ire subsides. “All right,” he says. “But the fact remains: we cannot afford it.”

For some reason Mycroft can't fathom, Gabriel's morning stubble makes him bold.

“I believe we have to,” he says. “My brother can be … weak where John Watson is concerned. If he were to learn that his old friend in a desperate, needy state, he would do anything to assist him.”

Gabriel opens his mouth on a sharp intake of breath but Mycroft dares to silence him by holding up a hand.

“If instead, he learns that Watson is happily established in his own home, with a job, and friends, he will be forced to assume that Watson has moved on.”

A slow smile begins to bloom on Gabriel’s face.

“I have no intention of supporting the Earthian forever,” Mycroft goes on. “As soon as he’s in gainful employ, I shall terminate all payments.”

Gabriel beams. “Excellent. Excellent.”

Mycroft lowers his gaze. “If I might make a suggestion?”

“You have earnt that right.”

“Like all Earthians, John Watson is driven by Sentiment. To make absolutely sure whatever he feels for Sherlock withers and dies before his return, we need to find him a replacement.”

“I concur,” Gabriel says.

Mycroft raises his eyes. “When I said his feelings need to die, I meant it. In whatever way necessary. There is only one kind of replacement suitable for work like that.”

"A Guardian," Gabriel agrees.

 

__________

 

_Monday, 4th Febrary 2013_

 

The surgery is in a modern building off Queensbridge Road. Clean lines. Airy entrance way. Lots of pot plants and natural light. John has an open invitation with a guaranteed welcome and yet his heart flutters as he walks in. He hadn’t expected to feel nervous - it’s not like he's going into battle - but now he's here, he has admit to that he really needs this job to get his life back on track. And if Mycroft pulled strings to get it for him, well, John’ doesn't have to feel beholden to him. He’s a good doctor - a very good doctor. Mycroft may have used his influence to get him in through the front door, but it’ll be John’s skills that keep him here.

He goes up to Reception and a pretty blonde smiles up at him from her seat behind the desk.

“John?” she asks. “John Watson?” 

When John says he is, she gets up from her chair and smooths out her skirt down over nicely shaped thighs. 

“I’m Mary,” she says. “Mary Morstan - receptionist and general dogsbody. Dr Khorandi is waiting for you. Come this way…”

 

__________

 

_Friday, 17th May 2013_

 

It's raining heavily when Sherlock’s plane lands at Indira Ghandi International, great curtains of water sweeping across the tarmac, but he's not here for the weather. He's here to prove that Anish Mehra's death five days ago wasn't the unfortunate accident the New Dehli police seem to think it but murder, and murder committed by another of Moriarty's network. Sherlock's been working on the book of scribblings Peralta gave him and, just before the murder, finally cracked one of the codes. Knowing what he knows now, the decryption is chilling.

Mahasaya Anish Mehra, New Dehli, Shankara Jayanti Mahotsava 2013. Swami Hardik Desai, Jaipur, Divali, 2013.

The murder of religious leader during Hindu festivals is being orchestrated by Moriarty from beyond the grave. The question is: what does this have to do with Heaven?

 

__________

 

_Saturday, 18th May 2013_

 

Sherlock recognises Inspector Pradesh immediately. The man is, in real life, as he is online: a corpulent policeman with close-cropped hair and a ready smile. He’s not smiling now.

“Mahasaya Mehra was a much respected teacher, greatly loved,” he says, wagging a finger. “He cannot have been murdered.”

“Can. Was,” Sherlock says. “Show me the post mortem report.”

Pradesh laughs. “Such things are restricted, my friend. I cannot show you.”

“D’you want Swami Desai to die as well? Because he’s next on the list.” Sherlock thrusts Moriarty's code along with his own translation of it under the inspector’s nose. “Unless you want your bungled handling of a serial killer all over the press, I suggest you shut up and do exactly as I say.”

Pradesh bristles but the coded sheet has caught his attention and Sherlock watches him study it, worrying at his protruding bottom lip.

“Who are you?” he asks when, at last, he looks up.

Sherlock smiles. (Love this bit!) “I’m the man who’s going to solve your murder for you, prevent another, and then let you take all the credit. But if you’re going to be boring and insist on credentials -” Sherlock reaches into his jacket pocket and presents Pradesh with a Met I.D. card.

“Ah!” Pradesh says, nodding. “Inspector Lestrade. An English policeman! You should have said!”

 

__________

 

_Monday, 20th May 2013_

 

“Oh, come on!” Mary says, standing up to lean across the counter in Reception and subject John to the full force of her best puppy dog eyes - puppy dog eyes that are unfairly big and blue. “It’ll be fun.”

“I’m washing my hair that night,” John says.

Mary’s expression darkens. Her brows come down and her smile fades. “Wash it in the morning,” she says, her wheedling tone replaced by something steelier that John hates himself for finding a little bit interesting. “We’re going out.”

He clears his throat. “Mary, look … um, it’s nice of you but the thing is, I’m still … I mean, I don’t ..”

“Don’t what?”

As Mary fixes him with a piercing look, John remembers the only other person who could make him feel so awkward and exposed. He shuffles his feet. 

“Date.”

“Date! Oh, hark at you! Who said anything about a date? You should be so lucky.” Mary rolls her eyes theatrically at his presumption. “I’m asking you to join a few of us for that Cirque du Soleil thing and a drink after, not proposing.”

“I’ve got a bad history with circuses."

Mary grins. “It’s all right, babe. You'll have me with you this time. I'll save you from the clowns.”

 

__________

 

_Friday, 24th May 2013_

 

The darling buds of May have been having a hard time of it today. It’s been raining all afternoon, pelting against John’s surgery window and ripping blossom from the bough, and t's even more torrential now. John stands in Reception, watching the pink petals splatter down onto the tarmac, and bracing himself for a mad dash to the bus stop. The car park is running with water, the wind whipping it up into skittering waves. He should have worn a mac, brought an umbrella … The thought of an umbrella instantly conjures Mycroft, and suddenly John's got darker things on his mind than the weather.

“Want a lift?”

He jumps at the sound of Mary’s voice behind him. He was miles away, months ago.

She dangles car keys in front of him. “Bit of an old banger, but better than the bus on a day like this.”

 

__________

 

_Saturday, 25th May 2013_

 

Leaving Pradesh to distract the press horde with promises of an exclusive interview about the Icecream Murder, Sherlock slips out of Police Headquarters by the back door. It’s still raining heavily but the air is hot and walking down Indraprashta Marg is like being fully dressed in an overheated swimming pool. Sweat breaks out on his forehead and sticks his shirt to his skin. Only one thing could make this situation any worse: a conversation with Mycroft. Sherlock takes out his latest phone and rings his number.

“Finally,” Mycroft says tightly. “Where are you?”

“New Dehli.”

“And?”

“Another of Moriarty’s agents behind bars.”

“Not dead?”

“May I refer you to the Sixth Commandment?”

“May I remind you that Gabriel has granted you a special exemption?”

“Yes, he did, didn’t he? D’you ever wonder why? I mean, I’m exposing them, calling the police in and putting them in orusib You’d think that would be enough. I don’t need to kill. Why would an Arch want me to?”

“This is dangerous talk, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, lowering his voice.

“I have a theory,” Sherlock says, ignoring him. 

“What happened to your maxim of it being a capital offence to speculate before you have all the evidence?”

“What?”

“I am just saying: don’t rush in where Angels should fear to tread.”

 

Back in his hotel, Sherlock spends an enjoyable half an hour flicking through his room’s Bible, looking up insults to use on Mycroft next time he sees him. “Your God is your stomach” (Paul’s Letter to the Philippines Ch 3 v 9) (or near enough) is particularly apposite, and ‘Baldy’ (2 Kings 2:23) would certainly have him checking his hairline in the mirror, but in the end Sherlock decides simple to call refer to him as ‘Eglon’ (who, according to Judges 3:17, was ‘a very fat man’).

But once the Biblical insults are on his hard drive, Sherlock finds himself at a loose end. There's no smoking in his room, and nothing of interest on the TV. He picks up Moriarty's book again and flips through the pages. On one, there's a four by twelve grid, each containing a number. Sherlock stares at it, willing it to make sense this time. (If only it were book code.) (Although without the relevant book ...) Frustrated by it once again, he looks away and his gaze falls on the Bible he cast aside. The red leather cover practically glows against the starched whiteness of his sheets and Sherlock's heart leaps. (Stupid! Stupid! With his warped sense of humour, there's only one book Moriarty would have used for this.) Sherlock grabs the Bible and puts it beside Moriarty's grid.

1:1:1:7 - (Genesis. Chapter One. Verse One. Seventh word.)

Heaven.

His heart leaps again.

5:5:7:9 - (Deuteronomy. Chaper Five. Verse Seven. Ninth word.)

Faithful.

Sherlock flips through Bible pages with ever-increasing speed, the fine sheets irritatingly difficult to separate, fragile and clinging. But, at last, he has it. The whole message.

Heaven. Faithful. Wife. Dead. Trial. Tenth. Month. Ham. City. Set. Husband. Free.

(Heaven Faithful is obviously lacking a hyphen. Husband has murdered his heaven-faithful wife, and Moriarty’s network wants him free …) (Which must mean he’s in custody.) (In ‘Ham City’.) Sherlock frowns. (Ham City? Somewhere they make ham? Raise pigs?) (Oh! Oh! Hamburg.)

Sherlock runs down to Reception to check out and gets a taxi to the airport.

 

__________

 

_Saturday, 1st June 2013_

 

The first thing John notices as he surfaces from sleep is warmth, then a slight slope in the mattress to his right. The duvet's not square like he likes it, either; slightly askew. He smiles to himself, wriggles backwards, arse first, joy bursting in little explosions down his spine. Sherlock …

“Oi, how much of this bed d’you want?”

John’s eyes fly open and he freezes, all warmth gone, as he's pushed back roughly and the duvet yanked away. The joyful explosions putter and fade. Oh, God - it’s Mary. He has a moment of blind panic, and very nearly leaps out of the bed to snatch up his clothes and run. Then reality kicks in. This is his bed, not hers; he can’t just get up and leave. What to do, what to do? Well, get rid of her. Obviously, the ghost of Sherlock’s voice says, but John’s not Sherlock, and Mary’s done nothing wrong. He liked her well enough last night. Twice. 

And Sherlock’s dead and gone.

John rolls over to find Mary grinning at him. She snuggles closer until they’re nose to nose. She smells nice, of rain and roses, and her eyes sparkle when she smiles.

“Morning, Captain,” she says. “No thinking of giving me my marching orders, were you?”

The question makes John splutter with guilt. “What? What! No. Not thinking of going AWOL were you, soldier?” He rolls them both over so he’s on top of her. She’s good for him. He needs this. It’s healing.

She rears up to kiss him, and nips playfully at his lower lip. “Actually, I was thinking you could salute me properly with an early morning drill.”

John laughs. “Is that innuendo, soldier?” he says, mock stern. “D’you want me to put you on a charge?”

She flutters her lashes and shimmies her shoulders.

“It’s my first offence, sir. Perhaps you should just give me a damn good dressing down.”

 

__________

 

_Friday, 7th June 2013_

 

The blonde with the ponytail from the jury and the man with the beard catch up with Sherlock in the park outside the Landegericht. The woman’s stronger than she looks; she pushes Sherlock off the main thoroughfare and, with the bearded man as back-up, forces him into the shadow of the statue of Emperor Wilhelm I.

“You bastard,” she snarls, gripping the front of his shirt to slam him into the stonework. As he grunts in surprise and pain, she reaches inside her oh-so-respectable jacket with her free hand and pulls out a blade. The point is digging into the skin below Sherlock’s rib-cage before he has time to react. It makes his heart thumps and his legs turn to jelly. He can’t die here, alone, without John. He forces himself to breathe evenly, to give his brain the oxygen it needs to form a plan.

The woman is breathing heavily, quivering with anger. 

"I ought to kill you right here," she says. "Right now."

(’Ought to’.) Sherlock blinks. (She’s not planning to.) (Why not?) (Because she wants something.) Sherlock holds his tongue, and waits.

“But if I kill you,” she says, “you’ll never get to see what’s coming to you and all of your kind. Death would be too easy.”

“Yeah,” the man says, at her shoulder, his eyes gleaming with hatred, despite the gloom. “You need to stick around and suffer. See what life’s like when your power and privilege are stripped away.”

(’Your kind’. ‘Power and privilege’.) The words have a weight to them that Sherlock can’t yet identify. The point of the knife digs in harder, but he files them away.

The woman’s grip on his shirt tightens, tight enough for him to feel a tremor of rage go through her.

“Trepoff is a good man,” she spits. “Better than a thousand mindless lackeys like you.” There’s a charged silence as she glares up at him, during which Sherlock ponders the wisdom of telling her she’s wrong; that, in fact, he has a first rate brain; then pain. White hot pain. As he gasps in shock, some part of him registers that the blade may have gone in but his lungs are undamaged. The woman yanks her knife out again and shoves him away. He slumps back, hands to his belly where the blood’s started to flow.

The woman surveys him with satisfaction. “Time for us to be going, but we’ll be seeing you - Angel. If you survive …”

She laughs and she and the man walk away, leaving Sherlock bleeding in the gloom. He staggers forward, shouts for help, but there’s no-one around. The woman chose her moment well. But someone will come … soon … If Sherlock can just get to the main road …

He pushes on but his vision has blurred. His feet seem unruly, his ankles weak. He glares down at them, watches them wobble for a moment; then everything goes black.

__________

_Friday, 7th June 2013 - 8 pm_

 

"Trepoff has been released," Gabriel says, the edge of each work crisp with reproof. "I might have taken that as a good sign, that Sherlock had finally decided to exercise the powers We've granted him, had I not heard that Trepoff was spotted on the I.C.E. to Switzerland."

"I'm certain Sherlock has a plan," Mycroft says, certain of no such thing. Sherlock was supposed to phone him when the job was done but he's heard nothing from him. Nothing at all.

 

__________

 

_Friday, 7th June 2013 - later_

 

Sherlock comes to lying awkwardly on the back seat of a car. It’s speeding through traffic, veering wildly from left to right, to an angry chorus of blaring horns. He groans as he’s flung forward and then back again, the violence of the motion aggravating the pain in his stomach. (Stomach!) He drags a hand up to feel it, to check for further damage to his wound, but finds padding instead. Alert now, he runs his fingertips over it, assessing. (Tape. Wadding. A dressing - of sorts.) (The work of a First Aider, not a paramedic.) He tries to push up from the seat, to catch sight of his saviour (or kidnapper) but his muscles won’t cooperate and the attempt makes the pain so much worse.

“Try not to move,” the driver says - in English. “It’s not far now. Don’t fret - we’ll get you sorted.”

(’Fret’. ‘Sorted’.) The words, the accent, ring sociolinguistic bells. 

“Stamford?” Sherlock asks, incredulous. “Mike Stamford?”

“The very same. I’d tell you I'm your Guardian Angel, only I’m the very opposite - ‘cause I’m actually gonna save you.”

“Hospital?”

“No! God knows who they’ve got planted there. No, I’m taking you to people we can trust. People who are going to be over the moon to see you again.”

If Sherlock had the strength for an actual sentence, he’d say Stamford better not mean Mycroft, but he hasn’t. He closes his eyes and lets himself hope that Stamford means John, instead.

 

__________

 

_Friday, 7th June 2013 - later still_

 

“He’s coming round,” a very not-John voice says, piercing the murk clogging Sherlock’s mind. “Must have a hell of a constitution. After what I gave him, he should still be out cold.”

(It can't be!) Sherlock prises his eyes open, flinches at the bright light above him and slams them shut again.

“Hello, Mr Holmes,” the same voice says, and this time, there’s no doubt: it’s Irene Adler. Sherlock’s heart plummets. (She works for Moriarty.) (This can’t end well.) He struggles to sit, only to find he’s strapped down, thick, leather restraints holding him firmly at both wrists and ankles.

“There, there,” Adler croons, cool hand cupping his cheek. When he forces his lids open again, she’s standing over him, smiling. “No point struggling. Those things will hold you forever, if I want them to. Stronger men than you have found that out.”

“Mike!” Sherlock rasps, his throat surprisingly dry.

“Shush, now,” Irene says. “Don’t talk. You’ve had an intubation tube in. Here. Sip this.”

Sherlock finds his head being gently lifted and a small glass of water held to his lips. He takes a sip, and another, before Adler whisks it away.

Somewhere to his right, a door opens and he hears heavy feet cross bare wooden boards.

“Stamford,” Sherlock deduces, putting as much contempt into the name as he can. “Traitor.”

Stamford beams down at him. “You’re righter than you know. But not in the way you think. You might not believe it, but I’m on your side.”

He’s talking in riddles and whatever Adler gave Sherlock is still in his system, limiting his ability to think.

“Where …?” he begins, only to choke on the word. Adler's holding a syringe up to the light and eyeing it critically.

“Where are you?” she supplies, as she taps out air bubbles.

Alarmed, Sherlock twists and writhes, but the bonds hold him tight, and Mike adds his weight to keep him still.

“You’re all right, mate,” he says, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder as Adler's needle slides in. “We’re taking you home.”

 

__________

 

_Saturday, 8th June 2013_

 

“Oooh, scratchy,” Mary says, rubbing at her face as she and John pull apart. “Great. Now I’m going to get stubble burn.”

“Sorry. I was so busy, what with the new patient records system … I’ll just go and …"

He tilts his head towards the bathroom but Mary catches him by both wrists.

“Oh no you don’t,” she says, firmly. “I only just got here. Besides-” She smiles, wrinkling her nose. “I kind of like a bit of stubble. It’s ... manly.”

“Oh, I’ll show you manly,” John laughs.

“Whadja gonna do?” she teases, as he lifts her bodily and carries her towards the bedroom. “Grow a beard?”

He growls into the side of her neck. “Something like that, yeah.”

 

__________

 

_Sunday, 9th June 2013_

 

When Sherlock wakes again, it’s dark. He’s warm; unbound, but still lying down - this time with a pillow under his head. He’s in a bed. He sniffs. (This isn’t home. This isn’t Baker Street. There’s no lingering smell of tobacco, or chemicals, or toast and baked beans. No John.) Panic claws at his ribs and he thrashes feebly against the weight of the bedclothes.

“Oh, Sherlock! My boy!” It’s a woman’s voice. (A little high. Starting to crack with age.) Sherlock hears her sighs and feels someone squeeze his hand. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you again after all this time.”

Sherlock turns his head to squint at her. He’s still woozy from Adler’s drugs, and the curtains have been half-drawn, but there’s something familiar about her.

“Who are you?” he asks, surprised to find his voice is almost back to normal. He blinks and finds himself looking up into eyes very like his own.

“I'm the happiest woman in the world,” the woman says. “Even if you don’t recognize me. It’s been a long time, and you were so very, very young-”

Despite the warmth of the bed, Sherlock feels the hairs on his forearms lift and a chill tingles the back of his neck.

“Who ..?” he whispers, but he already knows.

His mother isn't dead.

 

__________

 

_Wednesday, 12th June 2013_

 

It’s been three days since Sherlock was brought to this house, and his mother has spent most of them fussing over him - wiping his brow and combing her fingers through his hair, whilst the stiff-backed elderly man his father has become has been popping in and out with small portions of soft, sweet things to eat. The rest of the time, Sherlock must have been asleep, because he’s had no answers to his questions, and developed no theory of his own.

Drawn by the voices downstairs, he sits up carefully, hand to his wound as he swings his legs out of bed. There’s a blue silk dressing gown on the back of the door. He puts it on and ventures out into the hall.

The house is old: the floorboards creak and the ceilings are low. Beyond the bottle-glass windows, everything’s quiet and green; there’s no rumble of traffic, no shouting passers-by or barking of dogs. (The countryside. Isolated. Quiet.) (Safe?)

Descending the stairs proves a challenge: the movement tugs at his wound, and he has to go slowly, but finally he makes it to the ground floor. To his left, a door stands ajar. He pushes it open, revealing a large, rustic kitchen, with pine window frames and a porcelain-knobbed dresser. In the centre of the room, there’s a long, oval table at which his mother and father are sitting with Stamford. Irene Adler is leaning back against the worktop, body angled to show off her curves.

“Here he is!” she cries, and comes over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” he asks, ingoring her.

Adler and Stamford exchange a look. 

Adler nods, once. “It’s time.”

Stamford wrinkles his nose. “Better take a seat, It’s a lot to take in.”

“Could we just get to the point?” Sherlock asks, but he sits down in one of the ladder-back chairs anyway. (It’s better than standing.)

Stamford clears his throat. “Heaven … well, the thing is … it doesn’t exist.”

Sherlock snorts. “Don't be stupid! Of course it exists- " A thought hits him. "Oh, God. Don’t tell me you've kept me here whilst the Rebellion destroyed it?”

“No, no,” Stamford says. “Nothing like that. It’s not gone. It’s just not Heaven.”

Sherlock wonders if they’ve still got him drugged - or if they’ve taken drugs themselves - but Adler laughs.

“Look at him, the poor boy. He’s not following. Tell him the whole story, Mike. I’ll get him a drink. He’s going to need one.”

Sherlock gestures ‘no’ but she pours out a large glass of red wine and sets it down in front of him anyway.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” Stamford says, and Sherlock can feel everyone’s eyes on him, watching. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s true. The place we think of as Heaven isn’t another planet at all. It’s just a massive gated community in Chile for the very, very rich.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock scoffs. “You forget: I lived there.”

“It’s true, son,” his father says, sadly. “We lived there and we didn't know.”

Sherlock shoots him a look of pure contempt. “I would have.”

“Really?” Adler asks. “How? Come on, genius - tell us.”

“Television, papers, the internet-”

“All controlled by Management. What else?”

“Travel. Other people.”

Adler raises an eyebrow. “And did you seek either?”

Something cold settles in Sherlock’s stomach. It makes him defensive.

“I had my work. My experiments-”

“Yes. Just as the rest of us had our parties, our sports clubs, and our extramarital affairs. Our fabulous houses and our fabulous clothes. Perfect health, perfect bodies. We wanted for nothing, did we? We had everything we ever wanted. Did we ask ourselves why? No. The rich and powerful never do. They just assume that’s how life is.”

“And in our case,” Stamford mutters, looking sheepish, “we thought it was our due as Angels - the noblest beings in the universe.”

It feels like the ground beneath Sherlock is shifting with each word, slowly breaking apart. He racks his brains frantically for proof they’re wrong.

“If what you say is true, why send us here? Why risk us finding out it was all a lie?” he demands.

“Because a closed system has finite resources,” Sherlock’s mother says. “Things break, people fall ill. To keep us believing in Heaven, and themselves in power, Management has always sent some of us out to plunder and steal from the rest of the world. Though that’s not what they told us. They told your father and me that Earthians were greedy for oil because it provided the means to wage ever more deadly wars. They told us it was our duty, as Angels, to divert as much as we could to Heaven for Management to deal with.”

“If that’s true, then you must be an idiot!” Sherlock scoffs. "How could you not have guessed?"

His mother just looks at him. “What did they tell you your mission was?”

Sherlock opens his mouth; closes it again. Instead of speaking, he swallows down a mouthful of wine.

“They’re experts at deception,” Adler says briskly. “They took existing religious beliefs and twisted them to suit. We were all taken in. The question is, now you know, what are you going to do about it? We need you, Sherlock - you and your big, sexy brain. Don’t we, Mike?”

Stamford splutters a little. “ I wasn’t going to put it quite like that, but yeah.”

Sherlock takes another steadying sip of wine. “How were you going to put it?”

Stamford takes out a small but thick notebook from his jacket pocket. “I was going to tell you about Moriarty.”

 

__________

 

_Wednesday, 12th June 2013 - later_

 

By the time Stamford's finished, Sherlock's head is reeling. He sits back in his chair, fingertips pressed together, eyes unseeing.

"He said he was insane," he murmurs. "This proves it. Recruiting a handful of militant atheists to assassinate religious leaders? Hardly the most efficient way of taking Management down."

Stamford grunts his agreement, eyes sad behind his glasses. 

"Didn't start out mad, though," he says. "Started out brilliant. Maybe if he hadn't been ..." He shakes his head. "Plenty of us had an inkling something was wrong with the story we grew up with, but he was the one who put all the pieces together."

"Why didn't I?" Sherlock demands. He might as well be Anderson for all the sense he made of the evidence.

"They didn't send you to kill Nephilim. As far as you knew, Angel and Earthians were different species and couldn't interbreed. Moriarty knew that was a lie from the start, from the day they told him to kill that swimmer kid."

"Carl Powers ..."

"He was scarcely more than a kid himself when the Archs made him do that - and they made him do it because he was brilliant. Couldn't have him hanging around in Heaven when they knew some day he'd stop believing and try to get everyone else to see the light. Much better to get rid of him beforehand."

"Why didn't they just kill him, then?"

"Oh, listen to him!" Adler cries, throwing her hands in the air. "Jim was an asset, dear - someone they could use, like they used you and your brother. And the Nephilim problem wasn't going away, so ..."

"They made him kill to turn him," Mike says grimly. "Before he got old enough, experienced enough to challenge them, they decided to lock him into their side. He was clever, but he didn't feel. Or, he didn't think he did. Murdering Carl Powers changed all that. Suddenly he was feeling horror and revulsion and self-disgust, with no way of processing it. I reckon the only way he could live with himself was to believe what he'd done, he'd done for the best."

"Oh, so now you're a psychologist, as well as a pathologist?" Sherlock scoffs, because if he doesn't, he'll have to believe all this, and it's terrifying. It'll turn everything he's always believed in completely upside down.

Mike just looks at him. "Read the papers," he says. "Happens every day, all over the place, from street gangs to child soldiers."

"So why didn't he stop? Why keep going even after he'd seen the light?"

Mike presses his lips together and shrugs. "That much light is pretty dark," he says.

"Very gnomic."

"Well, everything he'd believed in was gone. Heaven, Angels, the rules. And he was all alone with that."

"He could have told us. We're not stupid. We would have seen-"

"He tried," Adler says. "Tried to get us to see what he saw, especially ..." She breaks off.

"Especially me, you mean," Sherlock says, remembering.

"He thought you were soul-mates," she says, and gives a tinkling laugh. "Everyone knew how brilliant you were, and your reputation was nearly as bad as his. He thought you could work together; be friends."

"Really? I distinctly remember him trying to kill me on four separate occasions."

"A wise woman once said 'What does it tell you when an assassin fails to kill you?' "

"Cannot shoot straight," Sherlock corrects, partly from reflex but mostly because he's feeling cornered and stupid.

Adler gives him a superior smile. "Same difference. Although, to be fair, I think he really did want to kill you that last time." Her smile turns sly, knowing. "He was jealous."

Sherlock feels himself flush.

"You had John and it was obvious to anyone with a brain that you adored him. Adore him."

Sherlock shifts in his seat. He's long past caring if people know he's had sex with John; it's them knowing how much that means to him that's embarrassing, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mummy beaming.

He turns on her. "Where were you in all this? Why didn't you tell me what was going on?"

"We love you," she says simply. "Not telling you was the only way to keep you safe."

"Wonderful!" Sherlock snaps. "My mother's an idiot. I'm so proud."

"Sherlock," his father puts in, looking stern, and it's so like what John might say and do, it hurts.

"I'm afraid it's a bit late to try teaching him any manners," Adler laughs. "And besides, we don't have time."

The hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck lift. "Why not?" he asks.

"Cuz we need you to go to Serbia," Stamford says. "Moriarty's not a threat to Nephilim any more, but there's someone in Belgrade who is: a certain Baron Maupertuis, and he's a lot less high-minded than Jim. Doesn't give a damn about truth or enlightenment. All he cares about is being paid."

"Why me?" Sherlock asks.

"Because you can get under his radar: as far as he knows, you're working for Heaven."

"And you're going to volunteer," Adler adds, with a smirk. 

"I am?"

"You are. Because you want to protect John."

__________

 

_Thursday, 11 July 2013_

 

As if recent developments in Europe and North Africa weren't enough to occupy him, Mycroft returns from the morning's Cabinet meeting to find Gabriel seated on one of the rosewood chairs outside his office. He's dressed in a beautifully cut Dolce&Gabbana two-piece in navy with a narrow navy tie. His hair has been cut, he's shaved and he's smiling. Mycroft decides now is as good a time as any to impart the not-good news.

"I'm afraid I have nothing new to tell you," he says. "It's been several days since I've heard from Sherlock." It's been weeks but he'll only confess that if he has to.

But, far from pressing him, Gabriel merely gets to his feet and smiles. "Oh, I'm sure we'll hear something soon. But I'm not here to talk about Sherlock, but to tell you the good news."

"Good news?"

Gabriel smiles so widely, Mycroft would be able to count his teeth, were he so inclined.

"The Rebellion is over," Gabriel says and claps Mycroft almost painfully hard on the back."

 

__________

 

_Friday, August 23rd 2013_

 

"Two cases and three boxes?" John hefts the last of them into the boot of Mary's Audi. "Seriously? That's all you're bringing with you?" Sherlock's chemistry stuff alone would occupy the boxes, though he doesn't say that. "The flat's not that small."

Mary smiles and kisses the tip of his nose. "I don't need much when I've got you," she says and runs around to the driver's seat before he can grab her and snog her properly.

"Let's move me in, first," she laughs, and turns the key in the ignition. "And maybe then I'll let you have your wicked way with me. If you're good.

"Oh, I'll be good," he promises. "I'll be absolutely bloody brilliant."

 

__________

 

 _Tuesday, 17th September 2013_

 

As far as Sherlock's been able to ascertain, Baron Pavle Maupertuis has only one weakness: his only son Stefan, whose every wish he indulges and whom he insists his staff in Kalamerevo castle treat like a god. (The Belgrade papers are full of gossip about them both.) (Gossip columns are gold mines - plus they have pictures). Sherlock's been watching them both and slowly working on a plan. 

It's a plan that's involved growing an absurd amount of hair, and then getting extensions as well. (Stefan prides himself on his long, dark curls.) (Gives the girls something to hang onto', according to an interview in Serbiancafe, and recalls Samson's pre-Deliah strength, according to a new biography cited in Danas.) Stefan's build is similar to Sherlock's and he's half an inch shorter; if Sherlock can keep his face covered with curtains of hair, there's a chance he'll be able to get into the castle unchallenged. And once inside, he'll gather all the information he can on Maupertuis' blood-soaked business, then haul him before the law.

The Baron leaves tomorrow for three days on the Dalmatian coast. Sherlock's hair is eighteen inches long. It's time to go in.

 

__________ 

 

_Wednesday, 18th September 2013_

 

"You're not jealous, are you?" Mary asks, scarcely able to contain her giggles, although John can't see there's anything to laugh at.

"No," he lies, watching David charm the barmaid into refilling his glass after taking three long gulps from his pint. "I just don't want to him to come along every time we go out for a drink."

Mary wrinkles her nose. "You're jealous," she says, and kisses his cheek. "Which is as it should be, because I am, in fact, pretty damn gorgeous. Best-looking girlfriend you've ever had, I bet."

John wishes David had already brought the next round over; he'd like to have been able to mask his need to swallow.

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 19th September 2013_

 

Sherlock races back the way he came. Maupertuis' men are nearly on him. The thrill of the chase is all very well when you're the pursuer; it's a lot less fun when you're the game.

The heavy boots of Maupertuis' goons thunder ever nearer, rapidly gaining ground. Sherlock is flagging. His stab wound has healed but he's lost fitness and muscle tone; if they catch him, he may never go home. He digs deeper, pumps his arms and legs harder. A shot rings out just as he reaches the exit and pings off the stone walls as he launches himself through. It's dark now and the temperature has dropped. A stiff breeze rattles the trees around the castle. Sherlock dives in amongst them. Behind him someone shouts but there's no more shooting. He stumbles at first, nearly falls, but his eyes adjust to the darkness as he runs on. He can see well enough now to leap a gully, to dance through brambles and fallen branches, and the voices behind him grow fainter, come from off to the left, not directly on his tail. He's doing it! He's winning! Despite the fire in his muscles and the rasp of each breath, he wheezes a laugh out. (John would love this. The excitement, the danger ...)

But he can hear something different now; hear and feel the rubbery swoop-swoop-swoop of it: a helicopter fast approaching. A dazzling shaft of light cuts through the trees, half-blinding him. He ducks to the side, runs the other way. The light circles and finds him. He changes direction once more, zig-zagging through the trees. Sometimes the light catches him for a second but then he's lost it again. Gradually the ground evens out, and the trees grow more sparse. Before he knows it, he's out on a plain, with nothing to hide behind but grass. The helicopter hovers dead overhead, and its light picks out an armed man in front of him, another to the side, a third to his right. He spins around. A fourth gunman blocks his way and gestures with the barrel of his rifle for Sherlock to get down on the ground. It's no use. He's trapped. He drops, exhausted, to his knees and puts his hands in the air.

 

___________

 

_Friday, 27th September 2013 - 8.55 am_

 

It’s almost nine by the time Mycroft rises. Working late was unavoidable, with information coming in from the field all night about an imminent terrorist attack in London. The fact that an Earthian agent gave his life to uncover this information gives the case added piquancy and Mycroft practically skips downstairs to breakfast in anticipation of an interesting day.

He finds a hand-delivered letter on his doormat: a cheap white envelope, the adhesive closure of which has failed to stick properly. Mycroft picks it up with an uncanny sense of dread and turns it over. His name is written and underlined in blue and blotchy ballpoint pen. His sense of dread grows stronger, tightens its grip on his gut and starts alarm bells ringing in his head. The handwriting is familiar. He recognizes it from long, long ago.

His first thought is that it can’t be; he must be mistaken. His second, that it’s a cruel prank; that the letter is one written decades ago. He traces his name with a fingertip. The sticky blue ink blurs.

Oh, God. This is impossible. How can this be?

He carries the letter into the kitchen and sets it down, unopened on the counter, and leaves it there whilst he brews coffee. His brain needs caffeine if it’s to deal with this. He drinks down half a cupful before he’s brave enough to try.

Mycroft. Darling.

Mycroft closes his eyes. Breathes in hard through his nose. It makes a rough, animal noise but at least it’s not a sob. He counts to five and opens his eyes again. The letter is still in his hand.

Mycroft. Darling. This will be a shock, I know, and I’m absolutely monstrous to do it this way, but it’s been so long. I’ve missed you. You and Sherlock, both. Every single day. Please - my big, brave boy - let me see you again, too. I’ve so much to tell you. There’s so much about Heaven you don’t know.

Mycroft needs a couple of seconds before he can read on.

Your brother needs you. Let’s be a family again and see this things through to the end together.

“Oh, God,” Mycroft whispers. His own mother. A rebel. And it sounds as if she’s somehow got Sherlock involved, too. Mycroft can’t, he won’t …

A red car will be waiting for you on Romney Street outside the Marquis of Granby at ten o’clock. Please, darling, when you find it, get in.

 

__________

 

_Friday, 27th September 2013 - 10.15 am_

 

Mycroft doesn’t leave the house until ten fifteen. It’s a five minute walk to the Marquis; he reasons there's a chance that they’ll be gone by the time he gets there. He needs more time to think through his options. His head is too full of memories and his heart too full of Sentiment to process them clearly.

And yet, for some reason, he doesn't take the long way round but follows his usual route, and there it is: the red car. His heart crashes into his ribs at the sight of it and his ability to breathe seems to stop.

Oh, God. What has he done?

His feet feel like someone else's as he approaches the car. He tries to tell them to turn, to go the other way, and yet they walk on. Right up to the car. A door opens. He gets in.

It's been thirty-three years. Mummy's aged. Gained weight and wrinkles and, under the blond rinse, her hair's gone grey. And yet Mycroft still knows her immediately. Unexpectedly, she seems to know him, too - not just what he looks like, but also what he needs. She doesn't say anything, just sits silently beside him as the car speeds away. Mycroft catches a glimpse of the driver's face in the rear view mirror. It's Sherlock's cheekbones that give it away. Their driver is Father.

He takes them out of London, heading west: A4, M25, M4. Past Reading and Swindon, then north. Up the A429 to Cirencester and the Slaughters. Lower Slaughter is a chocolate box mixture of leafy lanes and honeyed Cotswold stone. Upper Slaughter is more of the same, but the lanes are narrower and the houses closer to the road. Father takes a left, then a right, and pulls the car to a halt.

Mummy pats Mycroft’s thigh. “Here we are," she says. "Out you get, Mikey.”

Mikey. Mycroft shudders, as much from the casual shortening of his name as her touch. It’s clear that this was a mistake. No-one who had his best interests at heart would do either. Then again, they wouldn’t have driven him to a pink cottage in the middle of nowhere; and now, short of summoning a Home Office vehicle, he has no way of getting back. He’ll just have to play along and find out what he can. In case this all blows up in his face and he finds himself in need of something to divert Gabriel’s wrath.

Mummy’s a tad arthritic, Mycroft notices, as he follows her in through a hideously twee wrought iron gate. They can’t really be related. Angels don’t age so gracelessly; nor do they display such embarrassing poor taste.

Father is equally decrepid and, to add insult to injury, Mycroft now sees he’s dressed in corduroys and an old cardigan. It’s only the efficacy of Mycroft’s time in Universal Training that prevents his disgust showing on his face. The old man lumbers up and shakes him warmly by the hand. Mycroft does his best to smile, then wipes his palm against his trousers.

“It’s so good to see you again, son,” Father says. “Only wish it weren’t in such desperate circumstances.”

“Desperate?” Mycroft looks from Father to Mummy and back again.

“I told you we should have told him in the letter,” Father mutters.

“I was giving him time,” Mummy replies briskly. “Time to get used to us being here, before I asked him to help.”

“Help?” Mycroft asks. "Just what exactly do you want me to do?"

They both smile at him hopefully. 

“Rescue your brother.”

 

__________

 

_Friday, 27th September - 4pm_

 

The last time Mycroft felt this dizzy he'd had intercourse with Gregory three times on the same night, but that was a pleasant dizziness, born of pleasure; this is the kind that comes from too much conflicting data and leads to nausea.

“So, you see what I’m saying?” Stamford asks, waving a podgy hand over the layers of documents laid out on the kitchen table. “Heaven’s just a massive con. They’ve been using us, and others like us, to do their dirty work for years. It was high time we fought back.”

“And you got this from James Moriarty?” Mycroft asks, shaking his head. “I hate to break this to you, but you can’t take anything he said seriously: he was mad.”

“He wasn’t mad to start with,” a voice behind Mycroft says and he turns to see another ghost from the past, She saunters in, dressed in Chanel and high heels, as immaculately presented as ever.

“Ms Adler,” Mycroft says. “I was certain you were dead.”

She smiles with something, were she not so elegant, Mycroft might describe as glee. 

“You believed what you wanted to believe,” she says. “We all did. We believed that, as Angels, we were special.”

“We are,” Mycroft says. “Our brains are sharper, our bodies stronger-”

“We had better education and better healthcare,” Adler says. “And all of it at the expense of Earthians and Earthian resources, which they creamed off for themselves. We’re all the same, Mycroft. You, me, Sherlock, Jim Moriarty, John Watson. We’re all just Earthian. Human. There's no such thing as Nephilim. No such thing as Angels.”

“It hardly speaks to Moriarty’s morals, then, that he’d murder his fellow creatures.”

“Like I said,” Adler replies. “We’re all just human. Commit atrocities for ‘the greater good’, then find out what you’ve really done and have no-one believe you when you try to confess: it’s enough to send anyone mad. If you want to blame anyone for what Jim did, blame Management. Blame Gabriel. The blood is on their hands as much as his.”

Mycroft gets up from his chair and walks over to the sink, resting his hands on the cool porcelain as he stares out into the garden.

“Are you planning to expose them?” he asks

Adler laughs. “Oh, you silly boy! That wouldn’t work. In the countries with the power to do something about the situation, no-one believes in Angels. They’d laugh at us. Or sell us out to their Management backers. How long do you think the Rebellion would last if they knew us all by name? No, we need to bring them down from the inside.”

Mycroft spins around to look at her, aghast. “You’re not suggesting I join you in this enterprise, are you?”

She walks over and smiles up at him, as she brushes imaginary fluff from his shoulders and his jacket’s lapels.

“We've had word from an ally in Belgrade that Sherlock's been captured,” she says, “If you want to keep him alive, I'm afraid you don't have a choice.”

 

__________

 

_Thursday, 3rd October 2013_

 

John wakes up with a raging hangover - thumping head, nausea and self-hatred. He hasn’t felt like this since med school. 

It’s all Greg’s fault. Coming around with that box of Sherlock’s stuff. And that bloody video. John closes his eyes, clenching his fists against the vicious upsurge of emotion. Love and loss; joy and despair. He had new Sherlock last night - new words, new smiles, new Sherlock being insufferable yet perfect. New time with a dead man. It was too much - and the whisky that was supposed to have made it better just made it far, far worse.

John drags himself to the kitchen, gropes for a tumbler from the cupboard and runs himself a glass of cold water. It hits his stomach like a brick thrown into a filth-choked canal; fluids roil unpleasantly and threaten to spew over. He breathes hard through his nose until the turbulence ebbs away.

Outside, he can hear the bin men shouting to each other, and the heavy grind of the lorry, stop-starting its way down the street. Sherlock’s box of belongings is still on the table … On impulse, John snatches it up, opens the back door and makes it to the bin just as the lorry stops at the kerb. He lifts the lid and flings it in. The past is past. He can’t dwell in it any longer. Sherlock’s gone. That life is over. It’s time to move on.

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 15th October 2013_

 

Serbian is not the hardest language Mycroft’s ever had acquire but learning it took him a whole evening and he resents the time he wasted on its finer points. None of the Serbians with whom he’s come into contact gives a damn about the distinction between the imperfect and pluperfect tenses. Maupertuis employs brutish idiots, not men who’ve read much Milorad Pavić. Even so, Mycroft wouldn’t find them quite so repellent if they were to wash once in a while, but if Adler’s right, and Angels are just Earthians, then there's no God and no point in hoping for miracles.

“Where is the prisoner?” Mycroft demands of a pimply faced youth whose greatcoat and furry hat are far too big for him.

The boy comes sloppily to attention. “In there, Sir!” he says, pointing a door that sits ill in its frame. “Nikolić is interrogating him.”

“Let me in."

The boy hurries to obey.

Mycroft hardly recognizes the figure before him. He’s never seen Sherlock so unkempt nor with hair so long. He’s chained by the wrists to two iron rings on opposite walls, and slumped between them, covered with dirt and sweat.

Nikolić takes a break from his interrogation to look at Mycroft. The man’s knuckles are red and there’s sweat running down his face. It appears a degree of force is being employed to persuade Sherlock to talk. Mycroft glances at him quickly: he may be bruised and spitting blood but he’s not in mortal danger yet.

“Carry on,” he says.

Nikolić punches Sherlock hard in the stomach, the side and the stomach again but Sherlock doesn’t cry out: his pride won’t let him. He’s an idiot. A prideful, disruptive idiot. If it weren’t for him, Mycroft would never have learnt the truth about Heaven. His life would have run smoothly on. He watches Nikolić prepare to land another blow and feels his own hands curl into sympathetic fists. He’ll step in to stop this soon, but not just yet. Sherlock’s ruined everything. A little suffering is no more than his due.

 

__________

 

_Wednesday, 30th October 2013_

 

It has to be done. John’s waited far too long as it is. Well, more like avoided. Thinking about Mrs Hudson was painful, so he didn’t. But that doesn’t mean he ever stopped caring about her. Loving her, even. He gives himself a final once-over in the hallway mirror, smooths down the corners of his moustache and sets out for the Tube.

His courage almost fails him as he lets himself into 221B but it’s not guilt that overwhelms him; it’s the flood of memories. With the front door closed, and the noise the street shut out, it’s like hurtling back through time. He hears the plaintiff notes of Sherlock’s violin and his rich, dark laughter. The stab of grief is so horrible, it’s actually a relief when Mrs Hudson suddenly opens her door and shoots him a furious glare. It’s easier to deal with her resentment than that much-loved ghost.

She invites him in for tea, using the ritual to lend concrete expression to her displeasure. Cups get banged down, teaspoons rattled. John apologizes, and eventually she relents, squeezing his hand gently, but ‘sorry’ doesn’t feel like enough. John knows he should have done more; come here sooner. They used to be family.

He supposes that’s why he lets her persuade him to go with her up to the flat. She hasn’t opened it in all this time, she says, and he believes her. The living room is dark, the curtains drawn, and there’s so much dust. Dust is eloquent. And mostly particles of skin. Sherlock's skin. John swallows and breathes in what’s left of him. What's left of them.

“So why now?” Mrs Hudson is asking, as she opens the curtains and lets the sunlight flood in. “What changed your mind?”

John blinks. Remembers where he is and who with. “Well, I’ve got some news,” he says.

“Oh, God. Is it serious?”

“What? No. I’m not ill. I’ve, well, I’m moving on. I’ve met someone.” There. It’s out. The rest will be easy. John exhales. "We’re getting married. Well, I’m gonna ask.”

 

__________

 

Friday, 1st November 2013 - 3pm

 

Washed and shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes, Sherlock looks better than anyone who’s suffered imprisonment and torture has any right to; Mycroft feels drab and middle-aged by comparison.

“What do you think of this shirt?” Sherlock asks as he tucks it in. 

It's pristine, white and fits him like an almost-translucent glove; Mycroft can only growl in response. Thankfully, Sherlock assumes it's a growl of impatience.

“I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft,” he says, still preening. “Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in, feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

“One of our men died getting this information,” Anthea says sharply. “All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs: there’s going to be a terror strike on London. A big one.”

It’s as if she hadn’t spoken. Even after all this time, Sherlock is still only interested in one thing. “And what about John Watson?”

John Watson. A vast complication for which Mycroft can see no immediate remedy. He plays for time. 

“John?”

“Mmm. Have you seen him?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft replies, ladling on the sarcasm. “We meet up every Friday for fish and chips.” He sighs and gestures Anthea to hand over John’s file. “I’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course. You haven’t been in touch at all? To prepare him?”

Sherlock is staring so intently - one might almost say so hungrily - at the photographs, it takes him a while to register the question. Though why should he? He still thinks Watson has known all along that he faked his death. 

"We’ll have to get rid of that," Sherlock says, pointing at Watson's moustache in one of the photographs. "He looks ancient. I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.”

Mycroft swallows. His plan to protect Sherlock from accusations of Attachment - and of Attachment for an Earthian - has backfired. John Watson has a Guardian, a killer sworn to do whatever it takes to protect Heaven’s interests. Morstan may not actually be an Angel, but she’s definitely an assassin - and in Gabriel’s employ. 

Sherlock considers his reflection in the mirror, straightens his jacket and nods. “I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted.”

“You think so?” Mycroft asks, a flutter of hope in his chest. Perhaps there's a way out of this. Watson will be furious when he realizes Sherlock didn't die; with luck, the last thing he’ll want is to resume their relationship.

“I’ll pop into Baker Street,” Sherlock decides. “Who knows? Jump out of a cake!”

“Baker Street? He isn’t there any more. Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”

Sherlock snorts softly. “What life? I’ve been away. Where’s he going to be tonight?”

Mycroft pretends not to know. It doesn’t work. 

“He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road," he concedes. "Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Émilion, though I prefer the 2001.”

Sherlock smiles. “I think maybe I’ll just drop by.”

Mycroft grimaces. He can just picture the scene. 

“You know,” he says, softly, “it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.”

“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock replies.

 

__________

 

_Friday, 1st November 2013 - 10.45pm_

 

The pain was incredible - the sheer force of it; the shock. John ... John is getting married. Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to staunch it bleeding, but it does nothing for the raw agony tearing at his heart. John doesn't want him. John has moved on. Oh, this may all be Mycroft's fault - Sherlock can't believe he didn't hand over his letter, or let John know he wasn't dead - but the choice is John's, and he's chosen Mary. Being choked on a restaurant floor, punched in the mouth and then headbutted, it all fades into insignificance beside that. The hope that's kept Sherlock alive for two years is over. Gone.

And now John has stormed off to flag down a taxi. However, Mary (the “girlfriend”) (although she’s forty, at least) is still lingering at Sherlock’s side. He can feel her watching him.

“I said I’m sorry,” he says. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

She squints at him, as if he were something inexplicable under a microscope slide.

“Gosh,” she says, smiling. “You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?”

“Nature? No. Human? No.”

He’s been an Angel for so long, he’s never learnt how to be ordinary. How to be the kind of person John would want. Someone warm and caring, like Mary.

“I’ll talk him round,” she says.

Sherlock feels a rush of gratitude towards her. (Ridiculous! She’s stolen John away!)

“You will?”

Her smile grows wider. “Oh, yeah.”

She’s very confident about it. (And about her ability to hang onto John.) Sherlock looks at her more closely. As if she were a suspect, a client, a piece of evidence, and the deductions pour in.

(Only child.) (Short-sighted.)(Part-time nurse.) (Linguist.) (Lib Dem.) (Clever.) (Cat-lover.) (Bakes her own bread.) (Secret tattoo.) (Disillusioned romantic.) (Appendix scar.) (Liar.) (Size 12.)

(Guardian.)

Sherlock’s blood runs cold.

 

__________

 

_Monday, 4th November 2013 - 10 am_

 

Given Gregory's propensity for living off takeaways consumed in his car, Mycroft has always imagined he must live somewhere particularly squalid. It’s a surprise, therefore, to find his home is actually a modern-build flat above a chemist’s in Wallingford. Not that the place is to Mycroft’s taste, of course: the blank, whitewashed façade is like a moribund face from which a profusion of lime green balconies erupt like pustules. Mycroft does not linger contemplating them for long. He marches up to the door and stabs Gregory’s buzzer into life. It vibrates angrily - much like Mycroft himself.

His temper is not improved by having to wait several minutes before Gregory’s disembodied voice replies and, when the door lock releases, he stamps his way up the stairs to the second floor.

Gregory’s door stands open, the man himself within the frame: white-shirted but stubbly, and looking anything but repentant.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” Mycroft says, with all the menace he can muster when the pulse is fluttering dangerously in his throat.

“I’ve got a bigger one to pick with you, you bastard,” Greg tosses back.

“Me?” Mycroft is outraged. “What have I done?”

“You knew. You knew he wasn’t dead. All this time. Jesus Christ, Mycroft! I’ve been riddled with guilt for two years. And John - God, d’you have any idea what the two of you have put him through?”

Mycroft sniffs. “I did what I could. I got him out of the Hawsley and into the Priory. I got him a place to live and a job. I even got him a girl-” Too late, he snaps his mouth shut.

Greg’s eyes go wide.

“God. Mary was your doing. You knew Sherlock wasn’t dead and you still fixed John up with someone else - and a bloody Guardian, at that!”

“It seemed safer. In the circumstances.”

“Safer for who?”

Something inside Mycroft snaps: Gregory has no right to the moral high ground.

“I didn’t know,” he snarls. “No-one told me. Not even you.”

Greg frowns. “Tell you what? What are you talking about?”

“I imagine you’ve been laughing at me all along. Behind my back. When anyone who really cared … I mean anyone with even a scrap of integrity would have told me.”

Greg is still frowning, but all trace of his anger has gone. “You’re not making sense,” he says slowly. “What should I have told you? Look - we can’t talk out here. You’d better come in.”

He’s right: along the corridor, a woman with tightly curled orange hair has forgotten is hovering in front of a doorway, openly staring. Mycroft pushes past Gregory, into his lobby.

“Don’t play the innocent with me,” he growls, once the front door is shut. “You’ve been in cahoots with Uriel from the start. You must have …”

His trails off. Gregory seems confused. 

“I must've what?” Greg asks.

Mycroft blinks, the solid, righteous ground he thought he was standing on suddenly wobbly under his feet. He stares at Greg.

“Is it possible?” he asks.

Greg's mouth twists and he balls both hands into fists.“God help me, Mycroft! Much as I love you, I’m going to punch you, if you don’t-”

Mycroft blinks again. “What?”

“I said I’m going to punch you if you don’t explain!"

“No. Not that.” Mycroft’s mouth is dry; his heart doing somersaults. “You … love me?”

Greg throws his head back and sighs. “Of course I do, you bloody idiot.”

Mycroft opens his mouth, closes it and opens it again.

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah. I know. Sentiment. Attachment," Greg shakes his head. "Not the Angel way.”

“Good God,” Mycroft whispers. “You weren't lying. You really don’t know …”

Greg kicks his settee and growls. “Give me strength!”

“Sorry,” Mycroft says quickly, holding up both palms in apology. “I’m sorry. I thought … The Rebellion … Your friendship with Uriel … The thing is, we’re not …”

“Not what?”

Mycroft sucks in a breath and blows it out. “We’re not Angels, Gregory. We’re Earthians. Human. Heaven’s just-” He shrugs, helpless and overwhelmed by his own stupidity. “- a place for rich people.”

Greg is speechless for a full ten seconds. “Oh, my God. That’s what Uriel meant. What he was fighting for.” He’s gone very pale, and Mycroft feels bad for him.

“I’m sorry to have told you so abruptly," he says. "It’s a shock, I know. It took Sherlock and I some time to adjust, as well.”

"I bet," Greg says, then suddenly smiles. “Actually, I'm okay. I think part of me always suspected. That’s probably why I was drawn to Uriel in the first place. Hey - I must be a better policeman than I thought. Than Sherlock thinks! And you two … you really had no idea? Oh -” He rubs his hands together, chuckling. “I’m gonna love rubbing that in!”

Greg is taking the news well, but Mycroft still feels uneasy. “It doesn’t bother you?" he ask. "Knowing you’re just human, and that you can’t ever go back?”

Greg shrugs. “Hey, I’m a Fallen. I was never going back anyway, was I?”

“I suppose not.”

“And now- " Greg takes a step closer. "- neither are you. You’ll just have to slum it here with the rest of us. Sounds like good news to me.”

“Does it?”

“Too bloody right," Greg smiles.

"And - " Mycroft swallows. “- did you mean it? What you said?”

Greg’s eyes twinkle. “What did I say?”

Mycroft pulls as fierce a face as he can but his heart is racing and his stomach's full of butterflies.“Don’t tease me, Gregory.”

Greg steps closer again, his expression perfectly serious now and his voice soft. “Of course I meant it. The question is: do you love me, too?”

“I-I don’t know. I’m not sure. Love isn’t exactly something we covered to any great degree in Universal-” Being honest seems terribly important at this point, but Greg cuts him off.

“These past few months," he says, "have you missed me?”

“Y-yes.”

Gregory takes another step towards him. He's close enough now for Mycroft to feel the warmth of him and he looks down, unable to bear the pull of it.

“Did you keep wishing you could see me?” Greg asks.

“Yes.”

“And have you ever felt like that about anyone else?”

“No.”

Greg takes both Mycroft’s hands in his own. “Good," he says.

Mycroft looks up and see he's smiling.

“You love me,” Greg says.

“Oh.” Mycroft feels slightly panic-stricken. “So, uh, what happens now?”

Greg leans in. “You call the office," he murmurs against Mycroft's lips, one arm around his waist, the other cupping his cheek. "You call the office and tell them that today you’ll be working from home. Then we go into my bedroom and I rip your clothes off. How does that sound?”

Heat floods Mycroft’s cheeks and pools in his groin. He feels giddy, ridiculous.

“Delightful,” he laughs.

 

__________

 

Monday, 4th November 2013 - 4pm

 

John has bugger all interest in seeing Sherlock - today, tomorrow, ever - but Mary, in her innocence, wants them to make up and be friends again. Because she thinks that’s all they’ve ever been: friends. She has no idea.

John supposes that’s why he’s here, on Baker Street, walking towards what used to be their shared front door. He wants Mary to feel special; for their relationship to be the hearts-and-flowers romance she’s always craved. She’s been let down in the past and John won’t let that happen again. She can never know she’s second best. Never know that after they’ve made love and she’s fallen asleep in their bed, John’s body lies unsatisfied, still aching for Sherlock’s touch.

So he’ll do this. Go in and up to the flat. Pretend he’s okay now he’s had his revenge. Tell Sherlock everything’s fine now, because he’s moved on.

His winter gloves feel thick as he stands on the pavement, clenching and unclenching his fists, steeling himself to get on with. His old injury is playing up and his throat feels tight as he swallows. He coughs to try to loosen it-

-and starts at the sudden impact of a body colliding with him. A hard blow to his left-shoulder that makes the dull ache there flare into pain.

“Excuse you,” he snaps when the culprit goes sailing on, untroubled. 

The blokes glances back at him, lip-curled in a sneer. John briefly considers making an issue of it but thinks better of it. Sufficient unto the day, and all that. 

Then someone grabs him from behind and stabs him in the neck, and the world drops away.

*

It’s dark when he regains consciousness. Dark and cold. He’s half-sitting, half-lying on what feels like grass and he can’t tell where he is because his view’s obscured by twigs and leaves. Something’s burning, he realizes. Something close by. He's got smoke in his throat and lungs; it's stinging his eyes. He tries to push himself upright but his hands won’t move. They’re tied. And the smoke is getting worse. Glowing sparks speckle the darkness with orange, fall on his skin and burn. Christ! The fire is all around him. He struggles, shouts for help, but his voice is gone, and the right side of his head hurts like hell. He slumps back down again, exhausted.

He can hear people all around him - adults and children - talking excitedly, and suddenly, the low rumble of a motorbike. A kid’s piercing shriek rends the air and he terror in it is infectious. John struggles and shouts again.

There are flames now, and the crack and hiss of burning wood. Everything’s orange and bright., and John's sure he's going to die when, from nowhere, arms reach down for him and pull. John’s dragged unceremoniously through the smoke, and the flame, and the falling wood, into cold, sweet air. Faces loom over him, saying his name. For a moment, he thinks he sees Sherlock but, when he blinks and his vision clears, it’s only Mary standing there.

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 5th November 2013 - 2.45 pm_

 

It’s only fair, Sherlock thinks, once he's recovered from the shock of John suddenly walking into the flat. He rescued John from a bonfire yesterday; John’s come to rescue him from his parents today. Before John can change his mind and leave again, he hurries the pair of them out of the door.

“Clients?” John asks.

“Just my parents.”

John’s eyes widen. “Those were your parents?” he asks, and crosses to the window so that he can get a second look at them, down on the street. “That is not what I …”

(Well, of course it isn’t!) Sherlock’s told John he’s an Angel. (That must have given rise to certain expectations.) (False expectations.)

“I mean they’re just so …”

“What?” Sherlock demands, challenging him to say it. To point out how very human and Earthian they are.

“Ordinary,” John replies, with a smile.

“It’s a cross I have to bear,” Sherlock says bitterly.

John chuckles to himself, but his humour swiftly fades. “Did they know, too?” he asks. “That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek?”

“Maybe."

“So that’s why they weren’t at the funeral!”

“Sorry,” Sherlock snaps. “Sorry again.” He’s fed up with this new life already. He wants to go back to the old one, where he had everything under control; where he was always right. But then John turns to look at him, and Sherlock suddenly realizes John’s not doing this to punish him, but because he’s endured months - years - of pain.

“Sorry,” he says softly and, this time - despite everything, despite Mary - he means it.

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 5th November 2013 - 9.15 pm_

 

Oh God, they're going to die. Well, of course they are - because John is an idiot. Sherlock’s said so often enough; he should have listened. If he had, he’d have ignored the urge ever to go back to 221B and thank Sherlock for saving his life, he might actually have one. Because it was over, that thing they once had before Sherlock decided to bugger off to be secretly heroic.

John snorts softly to himself. It wasn't over. Sherlock still haunted his dreams. Mary's been great and everything, but, well, the hard truth is, she’s not him. With her, life is settled and predictable. With Sherlock, it’s an explosion.

Which, John knows, it pretty damn ironic, considering they’re currently standing inside a ticking bomb.

“Go, John,” Sherlock says. “Go now.”

“There’s no point now, is there?” John spits, as angry with himself as he is with Sherlock. “Because there’s no enough time to get away, and if we don’t do this, other people will die!”

The bomb's timer is counting relentlessly down because Sherlock - the arrogant dick who's supposed to know everything - has no idea how to stop it.

“Mind palace!” John shouts in desperation. “Use your mind palace!”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his forehead and temples. John holds his breath and prays. Sherlock’s brilliant, a genius. Hell, he probably still thinks he's an Angel. He can do this. He can. He has to.

But when Sherlock lets out an agonized 'God!', what's left of John's hope disappears and he watches, numb, as Sherlock drops to his knees to scrabble frantically at the bomb with his bare hands. There’s no method to it, no plan. Sherlock’s lost - and John's lost with him.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. “This is it. Oh my God.”

On his hands and knees, Sherlock looks up. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I can’t do it, John. I don’t know how. Forgive me.”

John stares at him, aghast. He’s never seen Sherlock look so helpless and uncertain. 

“What?”

Sherlock pushes himself up onto his knees and presses his palms together in supplication and - Jesus - the whites of his eyes are red with unshed tears. 

“Please, John, forgive me. For all the hurt that I caused you.”

It’s terrifying - Sherlock should be taking the piss or being a patronizing git; anything but this - and John refuses to believe it.

“No, no, no,” he says, shaking his head. “This is a trick. Another one of your bloody tricks. You’re just trying to make me say something nice. It’s just to make you look good, even though you behaved like …” The words get stuck in his throat. He loves this man. If they’re going to die, the last thing he says to him won’t be in anger. He grips one of the hand bars tight to brace himself.

“I wanted you not to be dead,” he says.

Sherlock grunts. “Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for. It I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be standing there, and you’d still have a future. With Mary.”

His faces crumples and he clamps a fist to his mouth. Jesus - his nose is running and he's clearly fighting back tears. The sight of him so miserable makes John’s heart ache.

“Look,” he says, his throat raw. “I find it difficult.” He swallows. “I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.” He has no idea how long they have left. There was a time when he thought they had forever. They’ve wasted so much time. John stands up straighter. He takes a deep breath. “You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known,” he says, and it feels good to say it. The confession feels like strength, not weakness, and John remembers Tanya trying to get him to say out loud the words should have said to Sherlock before he died. When he finally said it, it was to a grave …

Sherlock looks up, pale-faced and wet-eyed.

“Of course I forgive you,” John says, and closes his eyes. He nearly died before, in Afghanistan. He was all alone then. He wishes he were all alone now. That, somehow, Sherlock might live on. John lost his faith long, long ago, but he starts fervently praying.

Seconds feel like minutes, hours, years. John thinks he’s never felt so alive. He can feel every beat of his heart, feel the blood pumping in his veins. It shouldn’t end like this.

He can hear Sherlock crying. He feels like crying himself.

But Sherlock’s not crying; the bastard is laughing, bent over double with the hilarity of his joke. John doesn't see why he shouldn't just bloody strangle him.

“You … utter … cock!”

“Your face!” Sherlock says, straightening up, still laughing. “I totally had you!”

“You cock! I knew it! I knew it! You fu-”

“Oh, those things you said,” Sherlock interrupts, face alight with victory. “Such sweet things! I never knew you cared!”

John is furious. Relieved. Furious. Relieved. He wants to punch Sherlock, kiss him, force him down on his knees-

“I will kill you,” he promises, “if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone. You knew. You knew how to turn it off!”

“There’s an Off switch,” Sherlock says. “There’s always an Off switch. Terrorists can get into all sorts of problems unless there’s an Off switch.”

“So why did you let me go through all that?” John demands.

“I didn’t lie altogether,” Sherlock says. “I’ve absolutely no idea how to turn any of these silly little lights off.”

And there’s that look, the under-the-lashes flirty glance that John fell for years ago, the very first time he saw it. The look that says they’re a couple, a pair. That there’s just the two of them against the rest of the world. John takes a step towards him but a flash of torch beams from outside in the tunnel stops him.

“You did call the police,” he says, disappointed.

“ ’Course I called the police."

John growls. “I’m definitely going to kill you.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock says. “Killing me? That’s so two years ago.”

And he smiles. A genuine, fond smile that melts John’s anger away. He's a dick, but John loves him. Pretty much always has.

The police arrive moments later, too quickly for John to say the rest of the things he’s never said. A couple of officers escort them back down the line, and up into Westminster tube station.

“I believe this is where you came in,” the older of the policemen says, pushing at the gate Sherlock jemmied open earlier. “Have a good night.”

John thought they were going to be arrested but he keeps the thought to himself.

“Uh, thank you,” he says. “Good night.”

The policemen goes back the way they came, leaving Sherlock and John to make their own way to the exit. All around them, tourists and theatre-goers and commuters chatter and laugh; not a single one of them has any idea of the disaster Sherlock’s averted. They’re in the normal world again and a sharp stab of regret pierces John's chest.

“All right?” Sherlock asks, and John realizes he must have been watching him.

“Fine,” John lies.

Sherlock stuffs his hands into his pockets. “You’ll want to be going home now, I suppose. To Mary.”

There’s a slight hesitancy in his voice that stops John dead in his tracks: he doesn’t want to go home. In fact, it’s worse than that: he doesn’t want ‘home’ to be the flat he shares with Mary. He wants it to be Baker Street. With Sherlock.

“I could, uh, come back to 221B for a bit,” he says and, when Sherlock says nothing, he casts about frantically for an excuse, a convincing reason. “You could make me a cup of tea. To complete your apology.”

A couple of large boys in school uniform barge past, separating them for a moment. When they find each other again, Sherlock is biting his lip.

“I want to,” he says quietly. “I really want to, John, but-”

“But what? You want me as much as I want you. I saw it down there. You went to all that trouble, just to make me open up to you, and now you’re going to walk away? Again?”

“Never!” The vehemence of Sherlock's response seems to shock him and he moves closer, lowering his voice. “I will never walk away from you again, John, never, but there are things I need to do, things I have to do to make sure you’ll be safe.”

“Oh, no, you bloody don’t, Not again. Been there; done that. I don’t want to be safe, you cock, don’t you get that? I want to be with you.”

“John … You don’t understand …”

“I understand everything I need to, thanks. And I’m this close-” He holds up his thumb and forefinger, a mere hair’s breadth apart. “- to pushing you up against that wall and kissing you senseless. And that’s just for starters.”

Sherlock blinks, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. He clears his throat. “Really?"

"Really."

"Right. Well, In that case, we should, uh, probably go home.”

“Too bloody right we should,” John says.

 

__________

 

_Tuesday, 5th November 2013 - 11pm_

 

Sherlock takes off his gloves in the taxi so that he can hold John's hand. To his astonishment, John allows it - skin against skin, heat against heat, and Sherlock's cock twitches at the thought of how much more of this there is to come.

He can't get 221B's front door open fast enough, nor the two of them quickly enough up the stairs. He throws the flat door open, pushes John inside and locks it shut. There's a brief moment of looking at each other, of not breathing, as Sherlock takes off his coat, then John is on him - hands in his hair, mouth on his lips. Everything Sherlock is rises up to meet him. He seizes John's head, kisses him back, tongue in his mouth, arm around his waist. And he keeps him there, flush up against him, as he walks him backwards through the flat to his room.

"Christ, I've missed you," John says in the few moments it takes Sherlock to open his door.

"I've missed you, too," Sherlock replies. "So much. You have no idea."

They kiss again, more slowly this time, but with burning intent. John's mouth opens wide and he lets Sherlock bend him back so that their hips push together. The pressure is breath-taking. Sherlock rolls his pelvis and shudders. John shudders, too.

"Take my clothes off," he growls. "And put my dick in your mouth."

Sherlock's bones turn to jelly but somehow he manages a laugh as he shoves John's coat from his shoulders. "Anything you say, Captain," he says, and lets it fall to the floor.

"Anything you say, Captain, sir," John says back, but the words come out shakily, and he shivers as Sherlock hurries to lay him bare.

Sherlock sinks to his knees and takes John's hard cock in his hand. He can't believe he gets to do this again. He parts his lips and takes John in. John gulps, and Sherlock feels him tremble with the effort of trying to stay still.

He pulls away and looks up. "It's all right," he says. "Go on. You don't have to hold back."

John's eyes gleam wet for a second. He nods and squeezes them shut. Sherlock wraps his mouth around him again, gives him one teasing swipe with his tongue and it's all John needs to let go. He grabs Sherlock's head and thrusts into his mouth. Sherlock grips him by the thighs to stay upright; and sucks his cock up and down, lost in the smell and the taste of him, in his shameless, greedy desire. 

"Yes, bloody hell, yes, Sherlock - like that. Just ... like that."

The muscles in John's thighs tense, he pushes up on the balls of his feet and snaps his hips hard and fast. Sherlock splutters but holds on, sucks harder, does what he can to swirl his tongue, and then John is shaking and softly swearing and Sherlock's swallowing his ejaculate down.

"Jesus," John says, breathing hard. "That was ... You are ... Give me a minute."

Sherlock gets to his feet. John looks incredible naked - strong and scarred, but terrifyingly vulnerable. Sherlock takes him in his arms.

John pulls away a bit. "I'll get your suit all ... sticky," he says.

Sherlock tightens his embrace. "Couldn't care less," he says, and kisses him.

When they come up for air, John is smiling drunkenly. 

"My turn," he says, reaching up to remove Sherlock's jacket. "Tell me what you want."

"I want everything," Sherlock says, because he does and John grins, but Everything impossible just now. "I want to talk," he says.

"You can talk all you want," John laughs, already trying to undo Sherlock's flies. "I'll be otherwise engaged. But you talk away."

Sherlock catches him by the wrist. "I need you to listen."

John goes still and frowns. "What is it?" he asks. "Tell me."

So Sherlock does. Tell him about everything. About where he's from, about all the lies he believed, and all the stupid things he's done because of them - not least of which was going away and leaving John behind. He tells him about Heaven and Angels, about Moriarty and Mycroft, and finally, about Mary.

"I'll break it off," John says. "Tell her I've changed my mind. She'll go away."

Sherlock shakes his head. "She won't. She's here on a mission. She won't leave until they tell her to."

"And when will that be?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I don't know. Heaven is very powerful, John. Powerful and rich, not to mention ruthless. Fighting them is going to take everything we have - and lots of time."

"I'm with you all the way," John says. "For however long it takes."

"Are you?"

John rolls his eyes. "Of course, I am, you dick. And besides, I'm a soldier, and those bastards have invaded my home."

They kiss again, soft and sweet, and it nearly breaks Sherlock's heart.

“I’ve been an idiot," he says. "A blind idiot, all this time - because I thought I was special. But I’m not. I’m just a man. You’re going to have to marry Mary and I’m powerless to stop it.”

John shakes his head. “No. You’re not.”

“John, haven’t you been listening? I’m telling you-”

“You’re not ‘just a man’. You’re brilliant. You’ll find a way out of this. I know you. And I believe in you, even if you don’t.”

“John …”

“You’ll come up with a solution. It might take you a while, but you will. You always do. And until then …”

“Yes?”

John takes Sherlock's jacket off and moves on to unbuttoning his shirt,

“We do what we always do," he says. “We stick together.”

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks are especially due to scribblemoose, without whose encouragement and hand-holding, this story might have ended up in the bin ages ago.

**Author's Note:**

> According to the ~~Venomous~~ Venerable Bede, on being shown some beautiful boys in a slave market and told they were Angles, Pope Gregory I replied, "Non Angli sed angeli." (They are not English but angels.)
> 
>  
> 
> With thanks to [verilyvexed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/verilyvexed/pseuds/verilyvexed), [Rroselavy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy), [Despina](), [January_Marlinquin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/January_Marlinquin/pseuds/January_Marlinquin), [wedjateye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wedjateye/pseuds/wedjateye), [arnheimsdomain](http://arnheimsdomain.livejournal.com/) and [signe_chan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Signe_chan/pseuds/Signe_chan) for their various contributions, and most especially to [scribblemoose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemoose/pseuds/scribblemoose) for betaing, support and suggestions.


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